


Absolution

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Assault, Drama, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healing, Intrigue, Mystery, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27823327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A slate wiped clean. A chance for the scales to be balanced once again.The war had proved to be a pivotal point in the lives of all involved. It had made heroes of some and villains of others. In the aftermath, each of them needed to reconcile their own paths amidst the the memories of their actions.For some, forgiveness wasn’t enough. In the face of all that had happened, what they needed was more.But how to achieve that most elusive of states? How exactly does one find absolution?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 35
Kudos: 31
Collections: 2020 Dramione 50k Classic





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.R. and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> Thank you to my alpha and/or beta for their time and help.

The weather was perfect, which was saying something for London this early in the year. For once, there were blue sunny skies instead of the clouds that covered the city most months. Wanting both to enjoy the weather and to finish his rapidly cooling cup of coffee, Draco meandered over to a park bench and took in his surroundings.

As he sat, he thought about how the Muggles in London were none the wiser to the wizard in their presence. Draco had long since learned how to blend in. He had come to appreciate the comfort of a well-worn pair of Muggle jeans. Paired with a jumper and trainers, and with a ball cap pulled down over his platinum blond locks, he looked like any other young man enjoying the weather and taking a break from his weekend routine.

A Malfoy? Out amongst the Muggles? He chuckled to himself. Lucius would have a fit — if he knew. Mercifully for both Draco and his mother, Lucius was tucked away in Azkaban, and having received the Dementor’s Kiss right after his trial, he would neither leave the Wizarding prison nor interfere in the lives of his family ever again. He and his mother were now free from the tyranny of Lucius’s folly and the madman he had brought to dinner who had never left.

Draco looked around and surveyed the scene. An older man was throwing bread to a growing crowd of pigeons on the other side of the park. The man was far enough away that the birds wouldn’t bother Draco, but he watched as they gathered around the man, hunting and pecking for scraps on the ground.

Draco wondered what his story might be — what had brought him to the park. He looked to be in his mid-fifties — about his father’s age, he thought reflexively, then reprimanded himself for doing so. He took a harder look, keen to uncover what secrets he could. It was a favourite pastime of Draco’s, observing people and trying to figure out their story.

The man sported a lightweight jacket and khaki trousers. He appeared to be wearing nice shoes. Draco squinted, looking for other clues. There was no glint of a ring on his hand, not that that was dispositive of anything, but his affect seemed unhappy. He threw the bread mechanically, as if going through the motions, while his thoughts were on something else. Once his bread bag was empty, the man sat for a moment longer then got up and walked off, scattering the very pigeons who had crowded around him just before. They had no loyalty to the man who had been feeding them, and he had none to them. Draco watched the subject of his musings headed off in the opposite direction. He would get no additional clues from him.

He had started studying people — really studying people — during the time he had travelled after finishing at Hogwarts, but the seeds of that skill had been planted well before that point. Most Slytherins knew how to read people, and Draco’s skills had been critical to his survival for many years. Even as a small child, he’d realised that it was a much better idea to know what kind of mood his father was in before he approached him, lest he get a back-handed slap or a hex, rather than a disinterested grunt. He always found it funny that other houses often stereotyped Slytherins as cold, passionless or manipulative. The reality was that for many of them, those characteristics resulted from having built layers upon layers of a shell designed not only to help them navigate the outside world but also to protect them from those from whom they shouldn’t have had to fear.

That carefully crafted shell was also why Draco was such a good Occlumens, another skill that he had honed layer by painstaking layer over many years. One couldn’t afford to have disordered thoughts around a group of Death Eaters who were always looking to take any advantage, even from a boy, _especially_ if that boy’s last name was Malfoy. Even the potential reprimand for overstepping was worth it to get the upper hand against Lucius. Little did they care Draco would be the one to pay the price until he had learned to control his mind and lock down his thoughts.

He gave a passing thought to his closest friends, many of whom had grown up much the same way Draco had: Theo with his absolute bastard of a father, and Pansy, who hadn’t missed out on such abuse, even though she was a girl. Draco had hidden her from her father and put balm on her bruises more than once when they were younger. At least now, both of their fathers were also out of the picture, Nott Senior in Azkaban like Lucius, and Parkinson dead by his own hand, not willing to stand trial for his crimes during the war.

He, Pansy and Theo may have been freed from the tyranny, but they were not necessarily free of the ghosts. Old habits died hard and all that. His mind recalled Theo’s penchant to drown himself in drink rather than return home to the site of so much inflicted pain and sadness, and Pansy’s attempts to shop her way through her self-perceived feelings of inadequacy, of being unloved and unlovable. They were a motley crew, for sure.

While Blaise was a good friend, he didn’t carry the same burdens as the others. He had been raised by his mother, spending many of his summers and most of their challenging Seventh Year in Italy. As such, he had been lucky enough to have escaped much of the treatment his other pure blood friends had experienced at the hands of men who each had been Death Eaters, and raised their children to follow in their footsteps. Blaise had some idea of how things were, and had even been present during some of Lucius’s tirades when both boys were young, but he hadn’t lived through it in the same way that the others had. His soul didn’t bear the same scars, but that didn’t mean that he was without blemish either.

The travelling had been Blaise’s idea. The thought was to spend some of their parents’ money, see Europe and take the chance to live a little before settling down to whatever came next. Draco wasn’t opposed to the idea. After finishing at Hogwarts, he didn’t relish the prospect of being sequestered with his mother in *that house* for any amount of time, even if she was redecorating it to remove every vestige of their erstwhile ‘house guest.’ In the absence of his own plan, Draco acquiesced to Blaise’s entreaties. At the time, leaving had seemed like as good an idea as any.

Being a former Death Eater was hard enough, since not everyone in Wizarding Britain agreed with the sentence the Wizengamot had seen fit to give him. Not that he wasn’t thankful to have avoided Azkaban; he could manage the dirty looks and sneers. In recognition of the fact that he had been just a boy and his actions had been coerced, he had been ordered back to Hogwarts to finish his education and sentenced to a year’s probation to run concurrently. It seemed like a slap on the wrist to some who had lost loved ones and didn’t care about the intricacies of Draco’s upbringing. By and large, the Wizarding public was not aware of what a cesspool his life had been under his father’s thumb. However, Draco had breathed a sigh of relief that the Wizengamot, at least, had put the blame where it belonged and had not held him to account for things that had mostly been out of his control.

As soon as Draco had been free to do so, the two friends had left for the continent, landing first at Blaise’s home in Italy to recover from their N.E.W.T.s. Lounging in the sun sipping cocktails, Draco had felt like he could breathe for the first time in a long time, with no one looking over his shoulder to critique his every action or punish him for not achieving whatever results his father had desired. It felt good to spread his wings a bit and take advantage of all that was on offer. 

The first few months were a release for sure. They were finally free from school with no need to work. Meandering through Europe made sense for two young wizards who had more money and time than perhaps common sense.

It turned out that outside of Britain, few knew the specifics of the war that had been such an integral part of his upbringing, and better still, no one seemed to care. He was free to walk about without hearing jeers or slurs tossed at him the way they were in Diagon Alley.And to his delight, randy witches cared far more about his Galleons than his trademark blond hair, all too happy to dance and party and engage in _other activities_ that he had missed out on in the last several years of his schooling.

The two young men quickly fell into a pattern, traipsing through various Wizarding enclaves across Southern Europe, finding the local scene and inserting themselves into it. They weren’t the only ones who had the idea to tour after finishing school, and they often ran into others from Beauxbatons or Durmstrang as they made their way.

Blaise was in his element, back on the summer circuit it seemed. Draco didn’t begrudge his friend’s social nature. However, Blaise’s idea of a good time had soon moved beyond his own. Blaise was a consummate party boy; but while Draco didn’t mind a party, he wasn’t committed to it as a lifestyle the way his friend seemed to be. More importantly, Draco found he still had demons playing in his head. Although alcohol and potions helped to keep them at bay, they didn’t chase them away entirely. It surprised Draco to discover that he yearned to see more and do more than just party his nights away and sleep all day. So, he said goodbye to Blaise and decided to forge his own path for a while, leaving Blaise in good stead, but leaving him behind nonetheless.

He wasn’t quite ready to return home, though; so he struck out on his own, seeking to expand his horizons. If the past few years had taught him anything, it was that the world was far larger than the limited window he had been exposed to while growing up.

He told himself that he would head back when he felt ready to face life in England once more, but it had taken him longer than he had expected. Eighteen months after leaving, he found he hadn’t missed England at all, but at last, his mother’s pleas won out and he headed home. 

While Draco was willing to return for her, much to his mother’s chagrin, he still had no interest in living at the Manor. The whispers of the past proved far too difficult to ignore. Even after all she had done to excoriate the vestiges of Dark Magic from its walls, the memories remained: of his horror at having to watch Professor Burbage be consumed by Nagini, of the impotence he felt as his Aunt Bellatrix carved into his classmate’s arm with a knife, of coming across Fenrir Greyback as he mauled a muggle for sport. There were too many images like those, each burned into his brain. Occluding only helped so much. Even without those mental images, there were also constant reminders of his father and of who he was expected to be; every portrait would have something to say about how he was living his life and his duty to the Malfoy name.

Draco wanted none of that, other than his inheritance. Unlike the pride he had taken in the name Malfoy while growing up, he was now less inclined to take up the tarnished mantle. In addition, while he was ready to return to England, he wasn’t so sure how ready Wizarding Britain was for him. But there was more to England than just the small strip of Diagon Alley and a few scattered enclaves of magical society here and there. He decided to expand his thinking about his environs as he returned and looked for a place to live.

His mother wasn’t thrilled with his decision. She had expected him to come home to the Manor, but there wasn’t much she could say. As long as where he lived had a large enough fireplace and a way that owls could come and go without attracting too much attention, he figured he could make it work.

A bonus to the flat he had chosen was the park that lay across the street. It was, without a doubt, what had cemented his decision. He could see the treetops from his windows. The green foliage, in the midst of the London, reminded him of Wiltshire, albeit on a much, much smaller scale. Most days, like today, he made a point to sit outside. It was easier to observe people as he sat among them; most often he went unnoticed by the multitude of passersby as they went about their business.

From where he sat, he could also see a group of children tossing a ball; except their game had crept from the lawn onto one of the nearby pathways. Their young minds were oblivious to the people trying to navigate around them. He saw several adults stop to wait for a break in the game before proceeding, and a few changed course to avoid the bottleneck all together. Ah yes, the British were nothing if not polite. Or perhaps non-confrontational was a more appropriate description. Finally, a woman stopped amid their revelry and had a hushed word with the group. Draco wasn’t sure what she’d said, but the children looked sufficiently chastened and took their game elsewhere.

Just beyond where the children had been playing, he saw a couple sitting in the grass under a tree, a rucksack, an unfolded map, and what appeared to be a bag of crisps sat beside them. His first assumption was that they were most likely tourists, but he wasn’t certain until he saw their footwear. Trainers on both of them. Almost definitely American. If he could hear their voices, he would know for sure, but Draco wasn’t inclined to move, he was enjoying the views from this particular bench.

The man looked to be reading a magazine; although from this distance, Draco couldn’t make out with any certainty what it was, other than the object’s size and the fact that it was colourful. His partner was trying and failing to get his attention, attempting to show him something on the map. Draco hoped they were just on holiday together, rather than on their honeymoon. Such a level of inattention this early in a marriage would be an inauspicious beginning to their life together.

He continued to pay attention to the drama between the two as it unfolded. The woman reached her limit; her companion remained either unaware or indifferent to her requests for his attention. Draco saw the exact moment she had had enough. Instead of continuing her pleas, she turned to silence. He watched as she carefully folded up the map and placed it in the rucksack, while her companion hadn’t looked away from the magazine that held his focus.

Whatever he was reading, it must be either engrossing, or the man was a complete dolt... perhaps both, Draco surmised.

Draco watched as the woman stood, her mouth set in a thin line. Her companion, however, still didn’t look at her until she reached down and snatched the magazine from his hands. She tossed it behind her shoulder and stomped off in the opposite direction. Draco chuckled as the man hesitated for just a second to consider whether he should rescue his reading material or run after his companion. He looked behind him before sprinting off in the direction that she had headed.

That bit of entertainment having ended, Draco sat back on the bench and surveyed the park around him once more. If anyone acquainted with him knew he was out here, they would likely be shocked to their core. A Malfoy in Muggle London would be all the fodder needed for a front page scandal.

But he also knew that they would never know. So few wizards and witches ever willingly ventured into London, given their unease and unfamiliarity. It was a shame, but it was one that worked to his benefit. Here, there was no one around to judge him or give him a hard time.

His Floo connection made it easy for his few friends to avoid having to interact with the outside world; and the location kept other visitors and interruptions to a minimum. It was how he liked it. Draco was free to set the terms of his engagement with the outside world; he decided when and where he chose to interact. Meanwhile, his home was his sanctuary. If his friends found it odd, he found he didn’t care.

Draco wondered if he could imagine Pansy, Theo or Blaise in the same position, but he couldn’t. While his life had changed, while he had made a pivot, his friends seemed content to continue to live the same small lives they had been raised to, oblivious to the larger (read: Muggle) world around them. The most he could do was feed them takeaway now and then, on the few occasions when they came around. It was their loss. He had come to enjoy the pulse of London - the bustling atmosphere made him feel alive, like few things did these days. While his mother’s social engagements had their place on his calendar, and he made an effort to attend selected events to help rehabilitate his family’s name inside the Wizarding world, for better or worse, he also had plenty of time to himself.

In the three years since the fall of the Dark Lord — No, Tom Riddle, he corrected himself in his mind, that man… that thing was no more a Lord than Umbridge had been an educator. People gifted themselves all kinds of titles, and that didn’t make any of them true — Draco had found that listening to others, namely his father, had more often than not, led him down the wrong path; so, he had become insistent on making his own way, rather than following the advice of others.

Was it a lonely road? Perhaps. But, he found it far more satisfying than being what everyone thought he should be or doing what everyone thought he should do, much to his mother’s chagrin. 

Draco thought about what the last three years had brought. It was a very different world than he thought it would be as he was growing up, with his head filled with falsehoods about superiority and blood purity. He knew he had been a right little prick. However, with age came wisdom. Well, that and a bloody war to sort out your priorities.

The time alone had been good for him in several ways. He had been able to think through what was important to him, and he had had time to better understand himself and his place in the world.

His mother was steadfast in her push for him to settle down, but he couldn’t say that he was at all interested in any of the vapid and vacuous women who were still willing to marry a Malfoy, after his father’s actions during the war. Those women were looking to marry an idea, a legacy, not him. They were far more interested in the size of his vault and the prestige that would inevitably return after the Malfoys spent an appropriate time on the margins of Wizarding society. That was one benefit of being attached to his tarnished family legacy: the motivations of the pureblood women interested in him were rather clear.

But what was the Malfoy legacy at this point? Intrigue and influence? Politics and subterfuge? A legacy in the Dark Arts and megalomania? None of that was what he wanted, and it was not what the Malfoy legacy needed at this point.

After he had returned to Britain, Draco focused on laying low and staying out of trouble. Eighteen months out of the public eye had helped his reception in society, although there was still a way to go. He made sure to make the proper appearances and shake the right hands. He was generous in his donations to appropriate causes; charity could go a long way in helping to rebuild their name. Draco tried to do his part to repair the damage his father’s alliances had done, especially since being a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight meant very little at this point — that and £5 could get you a cup of coffee.

He still carried the stigma of his past. Everyone knew that he had a dark mark branded on his forearm. While the jeers and taunts had died down, there were still some who tried to hold him responsible for the loss of their family members, in the absence of any others to hold accountable. It was one reason he had been so quick to leave with Blaise after he had finished his ministry-required final year at Hogwarts. He had just about as much interest being part of a Wizarding Britain that was still putting itself back together as those in Wizarding Britain wanted to figure out what to do with a Malfoy.

What Draco Malfoy wanted at this point was peace. He didn’t want to disturb the quiet balance he had found during his time away while putting himself back together, trying to figure out who he was and who he was meant to be.

He was fortunate that money was not an object. Unlike some of his friends who seemed content to spend the inheritances they had received earlier than they should have at an alarming rate, Draco’s time away from the Wizarding world had left him with a greater appreciation for what he needed and what he didn’t. Ridiculously high thread count sheets would always be a preference, but last season’s robes worked just as well, despite his mother’s insistence, and while it was now over ten years old, his trusty Nimbus 2001 flew perfectly fine, thank you very much.

While he had lost many things: his childhood, his innocence, the prejudiced blinders that had been over his eyes; he had gained perspective. On balance, Draco thought it hadn’t been the worst trade, at least from where he now sat.

His cup now empty, Draco decided it was time for him to move along. It wasn’t as if he had something he had to do, but if he sat in one place for too long, someone would come by and inevitably start talking to him. Eventually, they would ask questions; Muggles could be chatty like that, if they thought you might engage in conversation with them. The problem was, there were plenty of questions he didn’t have suitable answers for: where he worked, where he had gone to school, what he thought about the latest action from the Prime Minister. Muggles liked to know something about who they were dealing with. They liked surety. No, people — whether Muggles or Wizards — liked surety. They weren’t sure what to do with someone who flubbed for the most basic answers. Though it was better now, he had figured enough to make it through the most rudimentary interactions. Still, it was much better for him to move along before that happened.

Surety. Now there was a thought. Perhaps that was why the Ministry had worked so hard to ignore the signs that Riddle was back. It would have launched them into the unknown. Instead, in a vain attempt to avoid the impending conflict, much of Wizarding Britain had been content to stick their heads in the sand and allow a bunch of teenagers to fight their battles for them, literally.

He started heading towards home. His mother expected him at dinner tonight, and it wouldn’t do to be late.

As he made for the exit of the park, Draco passed near the tree under which the couple had been sitting. There, strewn on the ground, lay the magazine — no, it appeared to be a book — that the man had abandoned in his haste to catch his partner and hopefully smooth the waters. The couple was long gone, and no one seemed to be interested in what they had left behind; nor was he. Although he could admit to mild curiosity about what had been so interesting as to have provoked the reaction he saw.He looked it over from above, trying to figure out what it was, but not seeing anything that he was familiar with.

On a whim, he bent down, picked it up and read the title:

Absolution.

Intrigued, he thumbed through it. Instead of words, pictures filled its pages, but it did not appear to be the type of book that a child would read. While he his interest was now piqued, he was also pressed for time; so Draco tucked the slim volume under his arm and walked home.


	2. In which Hermione uncovers a mystery

One year later

Hermione Granger was a witch. Regardless of those who had made it a point to tell her otherwise while she was growing up, she knew where she belonged. Magic was as much a part of her as breathing; it flowed through her veins and its tendrils were wrapped around her core.She loved being a witch. Magic was an integral part of her existence, and she used it effortlessly and often as she went through her day.

Prior to the day that Professor Minerva McGonagall had knocked on the door of her house for the first time, Hermione had never felt quite right in her own skin. Looking back, she would have described it as a restless feeling — a yearning for something, although she couldn’t have known what. Learning about her true nature had answered so many questions. She remembered the sense of wonder she had felt the first time she and her parents had walked into Diagon Alley. She remembered the feeling of absolute rightness the first time she had held her vine wood wand.

Even with all the ways she was secure in being a witch, Hermione was also fiercely proud to be a Muggle-born. And why shouldn’t she be? She had spent the first eleven years of her life without even knowing there was another world around her, one based on the stuff of dreams and legend. She had grown up riding in automobiles and eating popcorn at the movie theatre. While she didn’t enjoy riding on a broom, she loved the thrill of a roller coaster. She preferred tequila to firewhiskey, and when she wasn’t at work or had to attend an event, one would be hard-pressed to catch her in dress robes.

If anything, Hermione was a hybrid. She straddled the line between the two worlds, choosing to be a part of both, rather than limiting herself to one or the other.

To be honest, her parents probably wouldn’t have had it any other way. Helen and Richard Granger were supportive of their daughter and proud of her magical abilities. While they had plenty to lecture her about, once their memories had been returned to them at the end of the Second Wizarding War, their reprimands were given out of love and concern for their daughter and what she had been through, rather than any real fear on their part. They trusted her, and although they hadn’t been happy that she had needed to take such drastic measures in the first place, the Grangers had made a conscious decision to make their peace with it.

Hermione was thankful for her parents’ grace. In a different world, she could have faced their anger at her interference in their lives, or fear about the dangers to which her magic had exposed them. Instead, they had offered forgiveness to the daughter they cherished. It had been a balm to her. While she still carried guilt over having taken their choice from them, she knew it had been the right decision. Here, after it all, with them returned to their place in her life, she could be grateful.

Like any parents, the Grangers just wanted to spend time with their daughter, particularly in the aftermath of the war. The one condition Hermione’s parents had established upon returning to England was that they see her regularly, and that was a condition Hermione was happy to meet. Fortunately, the distance between them was much shorter, since Hermione wasn’t off at school in some unknown part of Scotland; and she was eager to spend time with them, too, now that she no longer needed to save Harry every few minutes.

Therefore, at least one weekend a month, Hermione headed to her parents’ home in Hampstead, in the London suburbs, to spend the better part of the weekend. Here, she could enjoy her dad’s home cooking and shop with her mum in total and complete anonymity. She didn’t have to worry about being fodder for the Daily Prophet or showing up amongst the pages of Witch Weekly.

In the Muggle world, no one knew or cared who the Golden Trio was. No one cared who she was or wasn’t dating (other than her mother), or whether her hair was not cooperating, or if she had tried the new triple-mint mocha frappe from Fortescue’s. It was blissfully, peacefully anonymous, which was why she was extremely protective of her time with her parents and out of the Wizarding world. It was where she sought solace, where she could recharge, and where she could be herself.

It was funny then that so many of her friends and acquaintances had assumed, because of her fastidious study habits at Hogwarts, that Hermione would have displayed the same tendencies in her working life. They expected that she would dedicate herself to late nights at the office and commit her every waking moment to making the world a better place. However, what was important to Hermione had changed somewhat, and she had also developed boundaries.

At school, some had called her a swot and teased her for her bookish ways. Little did they know that while at Hogwarts, not only had she been trying to learn as much as she could, but she also ended up with the unofficial tasks of keeping Harry and Ron out of trouble, keeping Harry alive, and eventually figuring out how to defeat Voldemort.

Truthfully, it spoke far more to the academic standards at Hogwarts and to the study habits of teens than her own bookishness that she maintained her place at the top of her class with everything else that had been going on around them.

The point of school was for learning. She knew her academic goals had been ambitious, even before the detour to rid the world of a megalomaniac. But they had done it, thank you very much. After returning to Hogwarts for her final year and passing her N.E.W.T.s with flying colours, a testament to those same study habits that everyone had mocked, Hermione had settled on a job at the Ministry, although not in the department that everyone expected.

Frankly, she was tired of trying to meet other people’s expectations. It was exhausting and also unnecessary. To the surprise of many, she hadn’t signed on with Care of Magical Creatures, nor had she followed Harry and Ron into the Auror Corps. Instead, Hermione had taken a job with Misuse of Muggle Artifacts.

The lack of responsibility was refreshing. She knew she needed a breather, a chance to not have to be everything to everyone for a change. She did her job and did it well, but when the day was over, Hermione walked out the door and left the Ministry’s cold halls and peculiar politics behind. It wasn’t a career and it wouldn’t suit forever, but for now, it made sense.

Given her schedule was far more manageable than it could have been, Hermione could regularly be found spending time with her friends in the evenings and on the weekends, curled up with a book, or indulging her sense of adventure by visiting a place she hadn’t been before, just for the experience. Getting to this point had taken some work, but in the four years since the war, Hermione had developed a healthy appreciation for relaxation.

This particular weekend was no different. Because of her boundaries and her father’s promise to make Shepherd’s Pie, Hermione was currently curled up on her parents’ sofa, rather than sitting watching Harry and Ron play in yet another rec league Quidditch game.

She loved the boys, and they were still her best friends; but they could survive without her on the sidelines this week. Instead, she had picked up a bit of light reading to pass the time, nothing too serious. In fact, her friends might be scandalised if they knew what she was reading — a book about vampires and wolves, although in this case, fiction seemed to be far stranger than the truth.

She steadily turned the pages of her novel, rolling her eyes at the drivel that passed for dialogue, while her parents watched the news. A light banter flowed between the three of them. Now and then, Hermione would pipe up with a contribution to the conversation or her mother would ask a question. It didn’t bother her; she wasn’t overly invested in the book. The writing was trash, but wanting to see how the story ended kept her interested.

Hermione did her best to tune out the voice of the broadcaster during the part of the program when the focus was on British politics. Politics made her uneasy, whether Magical or Muggle. So often, politicians led their supporters down the garden path, preferring unthinking masses who blindly supported the drivel they spewed instead of helping people think for themselves. Following ideas blindly had got humanity in trouble more times than she wanted to acknowledge. No matter the party, no matter which world, politicians seemed to be interested in helping themselves first and their constituents second.

Kingsley was different. He had been appointed to the office of Minister for Magic after the war and had won reelection on his own terms, continuing to push through a slate of reforms designed to bring the Wizarding world into the modern era. He regularly asked Hermione when she would quit faffing about in her current job and come work with him. She liked Kingsley, but she was wary of becoming a more active part of a government she couldn’t wholly support. If paper-pushing was the price of her personal peace, she would gladly pay it; although she wasn’t opposed to a little excitement every so often.

During the news portion of the BBC broadcast, her parents largely kept their comments to themselves. They knew from experience that to not do so was to invite yet another lecture about how the downfall of society would be caused by politicians who were more interested in being right than understanding the facts and acting accordingly. The dreaded subject made for a long dinner. Thankfully, there was only so much talk of politics before the broadcast moved on to other topics, football scores for her father and royal talk for her mum.

> _In other news, we’ve had another report of London’s own superhero. Police say they have no leads on unravelling this mystery, but our very own crime fighter foiled an attempted burglary in the Kensington area last night. The perpetrator was apprehended after an anonymous tip. The suspect couldn’t provide any identifying details, but the pattern seems to fit with other reports we’ve received these last few months. Mystery man - or woman, wherever and whoever you are, keep up the good work!_

“Superhero? Pish. Isn’t that rather American,” Hermione’s mother remarked.

“Not all superheroes are American,” her father replied.

“Name one that isn’t,” Helen challenged.

Hermione looked up from her book. She had only passively listened to the reporter, but her parents one-upping each other, based on their love for minutia and trivia, could be endlessly entertaining.

“Well, there’s Godzilla, dear. He’s Japanese.”

Helen leaned over and gave her husband a playful smack.

“You think that counts? Godzilla isn’t even human.”

“Human? Who said that was a requirement? Are any superheroes human?”

Hermione chuckled. She could listen to them go back and forth for quite a while, but she was curious about how they had got on this topic in the first place.

“I’m sorry. What are you two going on about? What’s all the talk of superheroes? Is there a new movie?” Hermione asked.

“No, no,” her father answered. “It’s the oddest thing. Some idiot is running around the streets of London incognito, and now the poor bloke’s gone and got himself a reputation for crime fighting.”

“Or she,” her mother corrected. “At least whoever it is seems to be doing something useful.”

How odd. Hermione hadn’t heard of such a thing, but now her interest had been piqued, though the broadcast had moved on to a different story.

“And what exactly are they doing?”

Her father answered her, although he had turned his attention back to the telly, given the football scores were now being displayed. “Well, that’s just it. No one is sure. It all seems to be a bit of a mystery, but if it makes the streets safer, who am I to complain?”

Hermione turned back to her book, but the thought stuck with her. A superhero in London? That didn’t seem within the realm of possibility; what was far more likely was someone was using magic.

Over dinner she brought it up again and asked her parents a few more questions to learn more information about it all.

“And this isn’t the first time that this has happened?”

She tried to sound nonchalant as she thought through the implications of a breach of the International Statute of Secrecy.

“Heavens, no,” her mother exclaimed. “We’ve had a handful of reports over the past few months. Usually, it’s the same thing. The Met gets a call about where to locate someone who has attempted to commit a crime. Or someone shows up talking about how they were helped out of a sticky situation. What’s interesting is with all these reports, no one has come up with a detailed description of who is doing it or how it’s happening. It all seems very covert and mysterious - a little MI5-like. Or maybe, Men in Black. See, Richard? They weren’t all human. Much better choice than Godzilla.”

“Also not superheroes, dear. More like intergalactic crime fighters.”

He answered, but kept his attention focused on the telly.

Helen, used to selectively losing her husband like this, rolled her eyes and poked her husband in the arm.

Hermione pushed to get more information from her parents, but she suspected their interactions would rapidly devolve into whatever they did when she wasn’t around.

“Well, that just sounds odd, doesn’t it? There are no real superheroes.”

Neither of her parents responded, as they seemed caught up in their own game. Helen Granger wasn’t happy being ignored by her husband, so she went to poke him again, except this time he caught her hand and tugged her towards him.

Hermione was mildly amused at her parents’ interactions. She had missed this during the time they had been in Australia, their back and forth, the utter normality of their relationship. For as long as they had been married, Helen and Richard Granger were still two people who truly enjoyed each other’s company. It was what Hermione hoped for in her own relationship some day. She wanted someone whose love flowed easily and comfortably, who she looked forward to sharing a life with, who made her laugh and debated the events of the day.

She pushed back from the table, wanting to put as much distance between herself and the growing tension at the table.

At the sound of her chair, both of her parents turned to look at her, as if they had just remembered she was in the room.

“Honestly, Hermione, who knows anymore? How many years ago was it when I would have said magic was a few card tricks and pulling a rabbit out of a hat, but now we’ve got to keep owl treats on hand and tell the neighbours that I’ve become a bit of an ornithologist!”

Her mother laughed and wrapped her arms around her husband before turning her head to expose a bit more of her neck to her husband, who greedily took advantage of it.

“Go check the stack of papers in your father’s study. You may find a few articles from the earlier events that answer your questions.”

Hermione took the hint and quickly escaped the room.

“This sounds like magic,” she muttered to herself, given her parents had stopped paying her any attention at all.

Hermione was thankful that she knew how to put up a silencing charm. She renewed the one on their bedroom before she entered her father’s study, and put up another charm on that room for good measure, in case they didn’t make it all the way to the bedroom.

She then settled down on the floor next to the basket of old newspapers that often sat until her mother nagged her husband to get them to the bin. She thumbed through them one at a time, trying to figure out what she might find. It was hard to tell, given she didn’t have a firm idea what she was looking for. The dated issues were no real help; although she found three articles that reported strange events like those her parents had mentioned. One story involved a man found tied up in an alley, with a purse he had stolen resting nearby. The second involved an attempted knife attack where the near victim reported that the knife had just flown out of his attacker's hand, as if drawn by an invisible force, and the third may have been just an odd coincidence. In the wake of an attempted break in, the perpetrator described hearing a loud crack, just before being stymied. “Whoever it was came out of nowhere,” the paper reported. It wasn’t much to go on, but it left her wondering.

She set those papers aside for a time when she could give them a more thorough read through, to uncover additional details that she may have missed.

After looking through the entire stack, she picked up the ones she believed had relevant articles and cautiously opened the door. The house was quiet, so her parents must have retreated to their bedroom to finish what they had started.

Just in case, Hermione tiptoed back into the living room and found it empty. She cleared the table and did the dishes, making sure everything was set to rights before she left a note to say goodbye. It didn’t look like her parents would miss her company tonight, and she was having brunch with the boys in the morning.

* * *

While there was much that had changed since the end of the war, not everything had. The Golden Trio was still a trio, although some of them had significant others at this point.

Hermione and Ron’s short-lived fling had been just that, and thankfully, the two of them had moved on without negatively affecting their friendship. At this point, Hermione found her crush on Ron to be laughable. They weren’t right for each other, and they were both mature enough to acknowledge that fact. Even Harry had seemed relieved when the tension between his two friends had instead been replaced with a much deeper appreciation for and understanding of the other.

Some things were not meant to be, no matter how much you might have thought you wanted it when you were younger. Ron wanted a wife to care for his home and be a mother to his children, and while he appreciated Hermione’s intelligence, at times it still intimidated him.

Thinking about the interactions between her parents, Hermione saw clearly how being with Ron would not have been the right thing. She respected him, however. He took the best of the Gryffindor traits and brought them to life, his bravery, his boldness. She could appreciate those things in him as a friend far more than she could overlook his less positive traits as a boyfriend or partner. Besides, he and Susan were a brilliant match, and she was far more like Molly Weasley than Hermione would ever want to be.

The three friends had a standing brunch date on the first Sunday of every month. Not that they didn’t see each other regularly, but so often, there were others around. This time was just for them. Barring Harry being off on a mission, the trio would gather to catch up, share stories and remind each other of the bonds that had cemented their friendship long ago.

During a lull in the conversation, as Ron attacked another banger on his plate, Hermione decided to see if either had caught wind of the odd stories making their rounds in the muggle world.

“I heard the oddest thing yesterday. It seems we have a superhero in London.”

Harry turned to look at her strangely.

“What? Like Spiderman or Batman?”

Ron simply looked between his two friends with a puzzled look on his face.

Harry took pity on him. “You know, a person who has abilities that they shouldn’t, like the ability to turn invisible or move extraordinarily fast? Muggles write stories about such things. I used to sneak and read Dudley’s comic books occasionally.”

Ron nodded his head, but the look on his face said that the explanation hadn’t cleared anything up.

“What of it? Anyone can cast a Disillusionment Charm.”

“No, really. It was on the Muggle news and everything. I heard about it while at my parents’ yesterday.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at Hermione, wondering where this was going.

“Well, it’s probably just someone looking to get on the news, isn’t it?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so, Harry. I know there are no superheroes, but this sounds different. It made me wonder whether there wasn’t a witch or wizard behind it.”

Ron decided that they had left him out of the conversation for too long, regardless of whether he understood what a superhero was; he knew the rules as well as anyone. Plus, he was still sensitive about leaving the Auror program to work with George, although everyone agreed that it had been the best thing for them both.

“Hermione, that’s ridiculous. You know I love you, but you’re always seeing things that aren’t there. And besides, wouldn’t that violate the International Statute of Secrecy?”

He looked at her full of confidence, as if he had soundly resolved the issue. She had already thought about that. She could see how easy it would be to dismiss the involvement of magic given there had been no mentions of “strange events” or other things that would alert the Improper Use of Magic office at the Ministry. Further, as an Auror, Harry would have been briefed, in case he needed to be on the lookout for a rogue wizard.

Hermione knew a lost cause when she saw one. Clearly, the boys had no interest.She decided it was best to let the subject drop.

“So, I didn’t hear about yesterday’s game yet.”

That was all the opening they needed, and now, all Hermione had to do was sit back, nod her head and smile at appropriate intervals as the boys launched into yet another discussion of their favourite pastime, Quidditch.


	3. In which Hermione makes a new friend

“Granger! Over here!”

Hermione wound her way through the tables at the Leaky Cauldron towards the spot where several of her friends had already assembled. Theo Nott pulled out the seat next to him and motioned for her to sit, before turning back to his conversation with Susan Weasley, née Bones.

It was the usual Friday night routine. If you could make it, you did, and if you couldn’t, you tried the next week. In the years since leaving Hogwarts, the Leaky had become the regular meeting place for the motley group of friends and acquaintances who had banded together during their last year at Hogwarts. At that time, some had been repeating their last year courtesy of the Carrows, and others were tackling their N.E.W.T. coursework for the first time.

Hermione was glad to shed her robes as she left the work week behind her. While some found it funny to tease her about leaving unfinished things to do on her desk, if there was one thing that the war had truly taught her — and it had taught her many things — was that people were far more important than work. When she was at the Ministry, she focused on doing her job and doing it well, but at the end of the day, she set her work aside knowing that it would all be waiting for her on Monday. Besides, the Ministry didn’t pay well enough to justify being chained to her desk on her off hours.

The group that gathered was a bit of a hodge-podge. It was made up of some who had been stuck at Hogwarts for their Seventh Year, forced to endure the hardships there. They were joined by those who had conveniently been out of the country much of that year, fortunate enough to have been whisked away by their parents to avoid the chaos that overtook Wizarding Britain once the Ministry had fallen after their Sixth Year. Several who had spent much of the year either on the run from Snatchers or traipsing about the countryside looking for Horcruxes rounded out the group, and even one notable former junior Death Eater came occasionally.

* * *

In the aftermath of the Final Battle, it was clear there were no real winners. They all had lost much: their innocence, their youth, family and friends who were now beyond the veil. Too many of them had become personally acquainted with torture and injury; and they all had experienced far more than those their age should have had to.

At the beginning of their Eighth Year, Harry, much to Ron’s chagrin, had been insistent about reaching out to the Slytherins who had returned. From the beginning, he was clear that he would broker no continued division, on account of how much they all had lost.

He explained to the group of assembled Seventh and Eighth Year students, many of them former DA members, what he expected from them. Top among his requests were tolerance and understanding for everyone, not just those who had fought on the same side.

“After all, if we aren’t all the same, what the hell were we fighting for?”

And that had been that. Well, not entirely. It had taken several reminders and pep talks to drag everyone else along, but Harry’s insistence that things needed to be different and his actions to show how it could be done were what got everyone moved off of their battle lines in the first place.

Harry would not to hold a grudge against Pansy for ratting him out. He wasn’t going to vilify Malfoy for the mark on his arm, whether or not he had wanted it. He made clear that he was starting fresh, without the cloud of old prejudices hanging over him, and he expected everyone else to do the same.

Not everyone agreed with him. At first, Seamus had been downright mutinous, but Harry had pleaded with everyone to give it a chance, to give the Slytherins a chance, as strange as it seemed. Since it was Harry asking — Harry who had literally been willing to die for them all, most everyone swallowed their objections and agreed to try.

Both sides had stumbled their way to a tentative truce. At first, the Slytherins were suspicious and the others wary. So much had gone on between the Slytherins and the other houses, for far longer than the seven years that they had been at school together; neither side was sure what to do, in order to move forward. While Headmistress McGonagall had gone out of her way to try and promote greater unity within the school, it turned out that an offered hand and a couple bottles of secreted Firewhiskey was what was needed to begin to thaw the ice.

After muddling through the first week of classes, word spread that there would be a gathering at the top of the Astronomy Tower on Friday night. No one seemed to be sure who had planned it, but everyone was ready for a chance to blow off steam and unwind from the week.

The Hufflepuffs were the first to arrive. Susan Bones and Ernie Macmillan took the lead in making the place comfortable, conjuring an assortment of couches, chairs and pillows for seating while Justin Finch-Fletchley and Hannah Abbott ran back to the kitchen for snacks.

The Ravenclaws showed up next and Michael Corner took it upon himself to configure a string of lights that made the space look far more festive. The Gryffindors appeared, arms laden with butterbeer and a few bottles of Firewhiskey from their aspirational post-Quidditch stash, and Dean Thomas turned on the wireless to provide a bit of background noise, or a distraction in case things got too heavy.

By the time the Slytherins arrived in the doorway at the top of the landing, the gathering was well underway. They peered inside, looking confused, either at how the place had been transformed from the cold and empty space it usually was, or perhaps wondering if they were truly welcome.

Theo Nott had tentatively held up two additional bottles of Firewhiskey — one in each hand and was quickly waved in by Harry. Unlike the poor quality libations the Gryffindors had thought to bring, this was the good stuff. Pansy and Blaise followed Theo’s lead, while Draco Malfoy hung back for an additional moment before entering the space.

“Thought you might be ready for a refill by now.” Theo bellowed to the room at large. He was typically quiet, so hearing his voice fill the space came as something as a shock.

Everyone already in attendance turned and looked at the newcomers with surprise.

Harry, true to what he had said, walked over with a grin on his face and patted Nott on the back.

“Exactly what we needed, and just in time. Come on in and make yourself comfortable. I think there are still some noshes to be had.”

He took a bottle from Theo and used his free hand to steer him over to the snack table.

The others stood just inside the doorway, as if unsure whether they should follow or turn around and leave.

The Slytherins were dressed more casually, as if trying to fit in. Even Pansy had dressed down for the occasion; although her lip was curled as if she was smelling something unpleasant or wasn’t sure if she might need to quickly fling an insult at someone.

“Thanks for having us, Potter,” Theo remarked, continuing to act as the spokesperson for his housemates. It was odd to see him so relaxed in this environment, but he had always been more of a chameleon than a snake. His father had been a Death Eater and was currently serving a life sentence in Azkaban for his role in the war, but everyone knew there was no love lost between Theo and his father.

As Theo walked off with Harry, several sets of eyes remained on the other three Slytherins, waiting to see what they would do. Blaise read the room and pulled Pansy over to the makeshift dance floor, deciding that dancing was about as innocuous an activity as possible. Pansy turned her head and gave Draco a look of apology, as they left him standing on the edge of the room alone and uncertain.

Hermione sighed and stood from the couch where she had been sitting. While she didn’t completely agree with Harry’s methods, she would support him. However, it would have been infinitely easier if she had to talk to Nott, rather than Malfoy.

She joined him in his spot along the wall.

“Glad you came.”

At first, Malfoy said nothing in response, and she wondered if he had not heard her or if he was planning on ignoring her completely.

She decided she would play along and continued to stand next to him, surveying the surrounding room. Most everyone had gone back to whatever it was they had been doing before the latest guests had arrived. Hermione found Harry giving her a look of encouragement from where he was chatting with Nott, while Ron’s face made clear he was not happy with her decision to extend that particular olive branch.

“Cut the bullshit, Granger. You most certainly are not.”

Hermione took a deep breath and thought about what she might say next. She was sure that under Malfoy’s sharp words lay fear. Unease had been on each of their faces when they walked into the room — like walking into an enemy camp. By and large, Slytherins stuck together, occasionally venturing out to mingle with the Ravenclaws. Some had family ties to other houses, but mostly, they kept to themselves.

Granted, when you were so uniformly vilified, as the Slytherins were, it was hard to do anything but learn to rely on each other, which only served to further reinforce how the other houses saw them. It was one thing Hermione disliked about Hogwarts — how the house divisions mirrored the divisions in magical society. She had always wondered whether the Founders had meant to draw the lines between them so indelibly, or if it was a consequence of more modern events.

She chanced a glance at the boy next to her. He stood rigidly, as if he expected her to launch into him for all the things he had said and done to her over the years. But that was just it, they had both been children. She would no more hold it against him, given what she had learned at the time of his trial. Malfoy had been caught between a rock and a hard place. He may never acknowledge it, but she now knew, and because of it, she could look beyond his gruff behaviour and choose to give him a chance.

“To be honest, given the alternative, I’d rather be glad.”

He didn’t respond and continued to stare forward, so they stood in silence next to each other, until suddenly he pushed off the wall and headed for the door.

Harry gave her a questioning look, and she shrugged. She had done nothing to run him off. If anything, she had been more than gracious in approaching him. However, the other Slytherins didn’t take his departure as their cue to head out. Blaise was still twirling Pansy around the floor to the tinny sound of Dean’s wireless, while Theo and Harry had their heads together talking about something or other.

Hermione joined Susan and Padma, who were chatting on a sofa. She didn’t quite feel up to joining their conversation yet. Instead, her mind wandered to the interaction she’d just had until Susan placed a hand on her arm comfortingly.

“You okay, Hermione?”

Hermione nodded.

“Yeah, fine.”

Padma was also looking at her in concern.

“He didn’t bother you, did he?”

Hermione shook her head, not wanting to add fuel to the fire, nor having any real reason to. Malfoy had been Malfoy, but he hadn’t been mean. In fact, that may have been one of the most civil exchanges they’d ever had.

She gave a small smile to show that she truly was fine.

“You know me, I was lost in thought for a moment. Must be the butterbeer.”

The girls giggled at her response, each having their own bottle beside them.

“This is kind of nice,” Susan declared before taking another swig of hers.

The next Friday found them doing it all again, except this time the Slytherins came earlier, weren’t so hesitant in their entrance, and there were more of them — Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass had joined their number. The two girls had never been unkind to anyone, and so it was easy for them to slip into the group. Theo and Anthony Goldstein launched into a heated discussion that captured everyone’s attention until they realised that the two were arguing about the derivation of an ancient rune. Leave it to a Ravenclaw and one of Slytherin’s top scholars to use a party to further a discussion better suited for the library. Someone handed them a bottle of Firewhiskey and two conjured shot glasses, which immediately ended their lively debate in favour of starting a drinking game.

For her part, Pansy still hung back with the boys, as if she knew that she wasn’t entitled to the same treatment as her female housemates, whether that was because of her offer to hand Potter over or her own sins, wasn’t clear. Soon, Blaise was drawn into Theo’s game, which left Draco and Pansy standing together awkwardly at the wall.

At least they had come back, Hermione thought. Several times that week, she had caught Draco Malfoy looking at her — in the Great Hall, during Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. She’d feel his gaze first, like a pricking on the back of her neck, and then she’d look up to see his grey eyes on her for just a moment before he looked away.

She did her best to ignore the attention. He hadn’t seemed to respond to last week’s overture; although he had mostly been civil.

Harry worked the room like a champ, acting as though his personal interest was enough to smooth the waters between them all. He had spent the better part of the week extolling his fellow Gryffindors to let bygones be bygones.

“We’ve got two paths forward; either we find a way to overcome our differences and set an example for the younger classes, or we end up back in the same place we were. Can any of you really say you’re looking forward to that sort of tension again?”

No one disagreed with Harry’s words, but it was difficult to let go of past grudges. The Slytherins had always seen fit to take every advantage over them personally and collectively.

“I get it. Trust me; I do. But we’re the ones who have to lead here. We’re the ones with the most credibility. If we refuse to go back to how things were, the other houses will have no choice but to follow.”

Harry sounded like the leader Hermione and the others knew him to be. His voice was clear and brokered no arguments, but he hadn’t been at school last year. There were things that had happened that during the last year that were not as easily forgotten.

“They’ll think we’re idiots. We’re the ones with the most to lose.” Seamus pointed out.

“No, we’re the ones who are brave enough to forge a new path.”

The truth was, they all had suffered and they all had lost.

Therefore, at this second Friday gathering, if any of the Gryffindors were surprised when Harry walked over to Pansy Parkinson and held out his hand to ask her to dance, they didn’t show it. They may have held their collective breath, while waiting to see how she responded, but she tentatively nodded before he led her to join the others already bumping around on the dance floor.

It was an awkward affair — mostly hands off. Harry didn’t have the best rhythm, but the fact that it happened at all was nothing short of a miracle.

It seemed that if the Chosen One was willing to cash in all of his capital on mending the divisions between the houses, no one was going to stand in his way. Hermione knew she wouldn’t. She had been by his side all these years and she wasn’t going to stop now. She knew what he was doing, in making this particular grand gesture; Harry was making clear that he had forgiven Pansy, that he wasn’t holding a grudge. If he could look past it, no one else should hold it against her either.

All too soon, the song ended, and Hermione watched Pansy as Harry gave her a quick bow and kissed her hand, a nod to her formal sensibilities, even if he didn’t exactly agree with them. Pansy’s face remained mostly emotionless, unsure whether she should pull her hand back, but her lip curled just a tad and it looked more like the beginnings of a small smile than a sneer.

Hermione watched as Pansy wandered off towards Tracey and Daphne, and Padma scooted over to make room for her on the sofa.

Things were going to be okay. They were going to get through this, somehow. It looked like they might be able to do it together, she thought, until her eyes caught the lone Slytherin standing on the edge of the room. Since no one else had, she would extend the overture once again. She knew that his bark was much worse than his bite at this point, both because of the terms of his probation and because he had always been mostly hot air. Malfoy had a history of letting his sidekicks get their hands dirty or threatening to tell his father; although that was no longer an option, she thought.

 _Here goes nothing_ ; Hermione braced herself, as she decided once more to own up to that Gryffindor bravery Harry had lauded.

She excused herself and grabbed two bottles of butterbeer from the table before heading over to take her spot on the wall. She held out a bottle for a long moment before Malfoy reached his hand to take it from her, nodding sharply. He opened it and took a long swig and they stood side by side in silence, each of them nearly blending into the wall. The two of them were still where others were in motion, quiet where the room was full of chatter.

To Hermione, it almost seemed like a respite, a moment of calm in the busy room around them. Were it anyone else, she’d call it companionable silence, but they were anything but companions.

“Let’s be clear, Granger; don’t ask me to dance. There aren’t strong enough cleansing charms to clean up all the heads that might explode upon seeing that.”

She couldn’t help but crack a smile, although she avoided looking at him. Malfoy had made a joke, and for him to have spoken to her without venom in his voice or using a slur or walking off was already a win.

Not that she expected it at this point. They were both long past using words to try to wound, particularly given each now knew more about the other. While she had learned about him through his trial, learning the details of the torture he had experienced at the hands of Voldemort for failing at his task and others on general principle, it seemed. He had seen her at the absolute lowest point in her life, as she was tortured on the floor of his home. She had seen the haunted look in his eyes, as his aunt took her knife and carved into her flesh. She knew how he had been forced to be marked, and coerced into fixing the vanishing cabinet. They knew each other’s secrets, even if there was little chance they’d ever acknowledge that fact. Some things, after all, were better off staying buried.

Hermione took another swig from her bottle. She could manage not-quite-companionable silence with Draco Malfoy.

They stood there side by side, for an undetermined amount of time. Every now and then one of their friends would glance over, making sure neither one of them had hexed the other.

“Good night, Granger.”

Hermione turned to see Malfoy tip his bottle at her before heading towards the door.

She was stunned at the fact that he had spoken again, and it had been with a tone of civility. It took her a moment to respond, and he was almost out the door before she answered.

“Good night, Malfoy.”

As she heard the door click, she pushed off the wall and went to join one of the other groups.

“What do you think his problem is?” Hermione asked Harry over breakfast the next morning, raising her chin towards the Slytherin table.

“He’s Malfoy. Why do you care?” Ron asked, his mouth full of toast.

She shrugged. It wasn’t that she cared, not exactly; though it seemed odd that for each of the past two weeks he had joined his housemates, but stayed for such a short time.

Harry tilted his head, considering her question; at least he took her seriously.

“Of course!” Hermione smacked her forehead, and Harry looked at her quizzically, hoping she would let him in on her revelation.

“The Astronomy Tower.”

Harry kept staring, as if waiting for her to explain more.

“We need a new location, at least if you want _all_ the Slytherins to take part in your project, Harry.”

At last, he nodded in understanding.

By the next gathering, word had spread that they would be meeting in one of the unused classrooms. It might be a riskier location from a curfew perspective, but more than one person was happy to no longer have to make the long trek up the stairs.

The tasks were the same, and the Hufflepuffs were getting creative with their snack choices. Hermione held up a more formal tin of biscuits with a look, and Justin Finch-Fletchley shrugged. Clearly, he had chosen to share his bounty with the group.

She happily took two and placed them back on the table, before a hand reached over her to grab the same tin.

“New location. Your doing?” Malfoy asked with a raised eyebrow.

Hermione felt heat pool in her cheeks and focused on quickly swallowing the bite she had just consumed.

“Well, this way, it’s a lot closer for some of the houses. It wasn’t fair that the rest of you had to sneak back all that way.”

“I see.”

She didn’t dare look at him, as she was sure he could see through her massaging of the truth, but he didn’t push her. Instead, he wandered off from the snack table, and went to join Blaise, who was deep in conversation with Padma and Dean.

This was how it always should have been, Hermione thought, as she watched the interaction. There were new friendships being formed, given they weren’t sequestered in their separate common rooms. It was almost like the DA, but without the practical side.

Hermione couldn’t help but wonder how things might have been different if building bridges across all four houses had been more of a priority from the beginning. In the war’s aftermath, Headmistress McGonagall was constantly extolling the benefits of unity, but until now, no one had really had a clear path on how to achieve it. Leave it to Harry — always Harry — to have figured out how to create a space for them to focus on their similarities, rather than their differences.

The gatherings continued on Friday nights throughout the fall semester. Each week, the attendees fluctuated. You could still count on the Hufflepuffs to make sure that everyone had a comfortable place to sit, although it wasn’t always Hannah who brought the snacks. However, the Gryffindors and Slytherins were constants.

For many of the snakes and lions, it remained easier to talk with the other houses rather than directly with each other. Everything was still fragile, as if a truce had been brokered, but not everyone was sure whether the other side would keep it. However, even Malfoy continued to come and mill around the edges of the room. He would only ever talk if in a group with at least one other Slytherin, or when Hermione engaged him directly. No one else really bothered, but it didn’t seem as if he minded.

Some weeks the mood was more heavy than festive, particularly when the day’s Prophet had reminded them of the reality of their situation, a report of another Death Eater being captured or given the Kiss or another family’s vaults seized to pay restitution for war crimes. On those days, many of the Eighth Years stayed in their common rooms, and the Slytherins who came drank far more.

Other weeks it was cathartic. Shortly before the Winter break, a small group of Gryffindors and Slytherins had lingered long enough that they were the only ones who remained, without their usual buffers. Harry, Hermione, and Ron were lounging on the floor on one side of the room.

Neville had already wandered back to the dorm.

Pansy and Theo were chatting on a sofa, while Dean and Blaise were talking quietly nearby.

As he stood and collected himself, Seamus, who had had more than his fair share to drink, decided it was a good time to test the waters between them more directly than had been done.

“Why’d you louts bother to come back, anyway? I thought for sure you’d have some fancy tutors for you to finish up with?”

He hadn’t used any names, but everyone knew who Seamus was referring to, both by the tone and volume of his voice. With almost everyone gone, there weren’t any other options. Dean made to stand to collect his friend, and Harry opened his mouth to say something; but Theo held up his hand, asking them to wait.

“To be honest, it’s a fair question,” Ron chimed in.

Hermione’s head spun to glare at Ron. Seamus did not need any more fuel for his fire. She bit her lip, worried that the fragile peace that had been constructed might all come tumbling down.

In a moment, Pansy’s eyes turned glassy, as if she was retreating into herself again. All the careful work of the semester was threatening to come undone.

Theo chose his words carefully.

“Is that what you think? That we should just stay home because everything is easier there? Far be it from me to let the British Ministry shirk its duty of educating its youth.”

Seamus shrugged. “I’m sure you’re all still plenty well off, even after everything. I mean, we’re all playing nice, but you had to have known you weren’t really wanted here.”

He then nodded at Blaise, “Hell, this slimy git hasn’t even had to pay restitution at all.”

That was a low blow, Hermione thought. Everyone knew Blaise and his family hadn’t been involved in everything that had happened. Guilt by association? Is that what he was now implying?

Theo stroked his chin, waiting to see if Seamus had said everything he needed to say. He then began rolling up the shirt sleeves; he bared his unmarked forearms, making a point about his own affiliation.

“Finnegan, you seem to have a mistaken understanding of who I am and what it was like for me growing up. Do you think I like the arsehole I had for a father? I’m just as glad as you are that he’s in Azkaban. Last I checked, Hogwarts, was a safe place for all of us. Excuse me if I’d rather be here than at home getting my arse kissed by someone who would only work with me if I paid enough to make it worth their while to work with the kid of one of the most feared Death Eaters. Do you think anyone would actually agree to work with any of us? With Pansy? With Draco?”

“At the moment, this fucking school and my friends are the only things keeping me going, the only things I’ve got, besides whatever Galleons the Ministry decided to leave in my vault — and surprisingly, the Galleons don’t make anything better.”

“Hell, you’re heading home to your family, aren’t you? To your parents? How many of us are staying over the break to avoid going home to houses that hold more bad memories than good, or are still in the control of the Ministry or in my case, one that is _completely_ empty.”

It was such a turnaround. Sure, several of them in the room knew how things were for the Slytherins, but to have it said so plainly was something else. Hermione had watched Theo begin to blossom over the last several months. She suspected it had something to do with being out from under the shadow of his father. To be honest, she was enjoying getting to know him and seeing the quiet boy come alive, becoming a jovial leader of the Slytherin pack, instead of Malfoy’s sullen and intimidating one.

Seamus was unmoved by Theo’s impassioned plea.

“At least my parents aren’t the reason some of my classmates don’t even have parents anymore.”

The room was already quiet, but went completely silent after Seamus’s last statement.

Theo’s face turned red, and he dropped his voice.

“And I think about that every fucking day of my life, Finnegan. While I may not have done a thing, my name will always be a terrible memory for some, me among them. But, if you feel you need to be a cunt, I get it. We’ve all got scars. We’ve all got pieces missing. While I don’t think I’ve ever done anything to you personally, I’m sure some of my housemates have.”

Theo had moved to stand directly in front of Seamus, offering to take a punch from him, if it would make him feel better. Harry quickly crossed the floor to try to diffuse the confrontation.

Hermione saw Pansy’s hands trembling. She went and sat next to her and took the other girl’s hands in hers. It was an impulsive move, but the raven-haired girl didn’t pull away.

To his credit, Seamus stepped back on his own, perhaps realising how his level of impairment might affect his performance, if this were to turn into either a duel or a brawl. He looked around Theo and caught Harry’s eye.

“See, they’re still complete wankers. We can drink with them and pretend it’s all fine, but you all seem to have forgotten that you’re not responsible for their feelings. You’re not responsible for making this better.”

His words hit their mark. Seamus finished speaking and turned and leave. For once, Hermione hoped he might be too impaired to cast a proper disillusionment charm as he made his way back to Gryffindor tower. It would serve him right to get caught out after curfew and drunk by one of the professors.

“And you forget that you are responsible for your own feelings, Sea, and what you choose to do with them.”

Seamus stopped at the door for a moment as Harry’s words sunk in, then slammed it shut behind him.

“On that note…” Blaise sighed and stood to leave. 

They all knew it had just been a matter of time before something like this happened. In fact, it was something of a small miracle that it hadn’t happened before, given the particular mix of people and their shared experiences.

Theo was still looking at the door, breathing heavily, while Harry stood next to him.

Pansy had gripped Hermione’s hands tightly at some point during the boys’ confrontation and hadn’t yet let go.

“My father wasn’t the nicest man,” she said in a quiet voice.

Hermione didn’t move.

“I still don’t know what to think. I mean, he was my father; although he did all those horrible things. I don’t doubt that, because even before the Dark Lord returned, I had seen him do terrible things.”

The others had turned their attention to listen to what she was saying.

Blaise knelt in front of her, his face full of concern.

“Pans, you don’t have to do this.”

She turned towards him for a moment.

“Blaise, they don’t understand, and there’s no way for them to understand unless they know what it was like.”

Hermione understood the words that passed between Pansy and Blaise. Slytherins didn’t show weakness. They certainly didn’t share secrets, like Pansy had started to do. It was much safer to leave things unsaid. Let people think the worst of you, rather than give them ammunition they could use against you.

Pansy took a deep breath and spoke again.

“My mother wants me to come home for the break, but I don’t know if I can do it. I know in my head he’s gone, but that doesn’t mean that things are suddenly okay. She’ll expect me to pretend they are, but I’m not okay yet, and I don’t know when I will be.”

She looked down at her hands that had still been holding Hermione’s tightly and realised what she was doing. She released them, but Hermione didn’t move.

“Pansy, you don’t have to be okay. None of us are okay.”

The remaining people in the room gathered around the couch where the two women were sitting. That night they ended up talking until dawn, on a much deeper level than they had before: about their upbringings, about the war, about themselves, about their fears and longings.

That night something changed in all of those who had been in that room, between Harry, Ron, Hermione and Dean on one side and Pansy, Theo and Blaise on the other.

At the very least, it was the beginning of mutual understanding.

Once the walls had broken down between the Slytherins and the Gryffindors, everyone else seemed to take it in stride.

Harry and Theo acted as if they had always been pals. It seemed that the two had found common ground in sharing the experiences of their miserable upbringings. If Ron was a bit miffed, he didn’t say anything. Hermione wondered if perhaps he now saw the circumstances of his own life a little differently, growing up short on Galleons but long on love. For her part, Hermione didn’t mind one bit. In the face of what they had been through, every bit of reconciliation was important.

Malfoy hadn’t been there, though. He had already taken his leave by the time the walls fell between them. She was sure the others had let him in on their conversation, and she wondered whether it could even have taken place with him there. Would he have shushed Pansy into silence? Hexed Seamus for his impertinence? Or would he have stormed out entirely?

Whatever would have happened had Malfoy been there, Hermione didn’t know. He remained on the periphery of these new relationships. He didn’t seem to mind that they were happening, yet it appeared that he also didn’t want to take part in them directly. He still came for a while on Fridays and then left once he had had enough. Hermione was cordial, but she didn’t go out of her way to engage him, given Pansy often pulled her into whatever conversation she was having.

Meanwhile, the new ties held through the end of the school year before transforming into Friday nights at the Leaky. Pansy had been surprisingly hard to get rid of after her outburst. It seemed that either one was outside her circle or in it; and once in it, you stayed in it. At first, Hermione had felt odd finding herself enjoying getting to know the Slytherin girls when she hadn’t found the same affinity with her own housemates, namely Lavender and Parvati, but she chalked that up to an issue of interests more than anything else.

It turned out that Tracey’s upbringing had been rather close to Hermione’s, albeit inside the Wizarding world. However, she had a set of Muggle grandparents that she adored. While Daphne and Pansy had been raised more formally than Hermione, both could be quite fun when you got to know them. It was so different from the previous seven years, but as she buckled down to start revisions for her N.E.W.T.s in the spring, with a mix of old and new friends around her, Hermione felt, for the first time, a sense of contentment and peace.

* * *

Even after all this time, their patterns were still the same. As Hermione took her seat at the table, Theo slid a drink towards her; he was thoughtful like that. He always had her drink waiting for her, and he always picked up the tab for the first round.

“At least he’s putting those Galleons to use for something.” Ron had quipped early on.

Given most of them were working entry-level ministry jobs, it wasn’t a small gesture for him to do this week in/week out. And even less so, now that it was four years down the road. Hermione suspected that Theo’s gesture was more about his own feelings of needing to continually pay penance, rather than altruism, but they all made peace with themselves in different ways.

Hermione took a sip of her drink and nodded at those gathered around the table, stopping when she saw a shock of platinum blond hair. Malfoy had deigned to grace them with his presence tonight. She wondered what the occasion might be; he joined them so infrequently. His habit was still the same. When he came, he’d only stay so long before he got up and wandered off.

He must have arrived not long before Hermione, as Theo had turned from speaking with Susan and was now scolding him. From the snippets of conversation that Hermione caught as she greeted those gathered for this week’s merriment, she surmised that Theo already had unsuccessfully tried to get him to hang out earlier this week. She felt for Theo, knowing how much he had missed both Draco and Blaise while they had been away. His Gryffindor buddies and Pansy were a poor substitute, and Theo really did best with constant minding. He tended to lapse into a funk when left on his own for too long.

“Draco, you don’t have a job. What exactly would you have keeping you so busy?”

Theo paused and narrowed his eyes, “Unless…”

He stared at Malfoy, as if the answer had suddenly occurred to him, and raised an eyebrow, “Ahh… I see. I stand corrected.”

Hermione turned to look at Malfoy’s face but didn’t see how his expression revealed anything at all. If anything, it looked like he was challenging Nott, or trying to get him to shut his mouth… or both.

To everyone’s surprise, Draco took the opening Theo had given him and spoke up.

“Now Theo, you know a gentleman never tells.”

The men at the table erupted into laughter, and Hermione shook her head, slowly.

Slytherins.


	4. In which Hermione digs deeper and uncovers a mystery of another sort

“I don’t see why we have to even file these stupid reports. It’s not like anyone actually reads them.”

Hermione gritted her teeth as her office mate crumpled the memo that had just arrived and shot it at the waste bin, as if he were a basketball player. He missed.

Of course no one read the reports they wrote, at least not routinely, but when you needed to look back and discover a pattern, reports of what Muggle artifacts were being misused, along with the relevant details, could paint a different picture.

Hermione made a mental note to make sure she filed the report she was working on by herself before leaving. She had no interest in giving their boss, Mr Pennyweather, any reason to question her work.

There was no love lost between her and her office mate, Cormac McLaggen. While he insisted there could be something between them, for her, it had only ever been that momentary lapse in judgment that had made her think of him as anything other than an utter and complete dolt. If Hermione ever decided to leave her job, Cormac would be at the top of the list for reasons why, but then again, her boss would probably be right under him.

Hermione stayed in her position in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office because it was easy. She didn’t have to do much thinking. She certainly didn’t need to stay late. The job took her out of the office occasionally and she was even able to work with the Auror Office or the Obliviation Squad from time to time.

Someone needed to make sure unsuspecting Muggles weren’t taken advantage of by witches or wizards with no scruples, or who didn’t care for non-magical folk. And if it fell to her, so be it.

She had always enjoyed the stories Arthur Weasley told about his work, although he had since moved on in the Ministry, no longer held back by a short-sighted and narrow-minded regime. Fresh out of Hogwarts, with her parents’ memories recently restored and them so newly returned to their lives in England, she preferred something more straightforward and less complicated than the other options might have been. Hermione knew it wasn’t the ideal place to start her career with the ministry; but it was a job with a paycheck.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t had her pick of departments after leaving Hogwarts, given she had seven N.E.W.T.s in hand. Some were shocked that this was where she had chosen to work, but she couldn’t be bothered with what everyone thought. To Hermione, her position wasn’t physically taxing, like being an Auror. It wasn’t mentally taxing, like being an Unspeakable; and it wasn’t all-consuming, like working for the Wizengamot or DMLE would have been. Most importantly, it allowed her time: time with her parents, time with her friends, and even time for herself.

On the other hand, it also came with up close and personal knowledge of every one of Cormac McLaggen’s proclivities and faults, one of which he was engaging in right now. He flicked his wand to deliver the crumpled paper into the bin and then stretched out and put his feet up on his desk.

“You work too hard, Granger. Still trying to make me look bad, are you?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping that he would lose interest in her, so she could finish what she was doing.

Hermione desperately wanted to finish the report she was working on. There had been an incident with a Muggle who had come across an ill-placed Portkey. Leaving an old umbrella where someone doing rubbish collection might have come across it was poor judgment. The wizard who made the mistake realised it almost immediately. She had been called out to meet the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes to take care of the misplaced umbrella, while they Obliviated the shell-shocked man who had suddenly been transported some 100km away. It was a relatively straightforward report, and unlike Cormac, Hermione was not going to shirk her responsibilities. Who knew when someone would need to identify umbrella-related hazards or determine whether this particular wizard had a habit of poor decisions.

“You know, we could be doing something else.”

His tone turned suggestive. Hermione rolled her eyes, but kept working on her report. Fortunately, she knew he was all talk and no action. Cormac might be a lout, but he had a healthy respect for her wand work. He was merely trying to annoy her.

She kept moving her quill. It was three forty-five. Mr Pennyweather would stroll past their office for the last time shortly, and Cormac would pack up and make his way to the Floos soon after that. That would give her almost an hour of peace and quiet to finish her report and get it filed, before heading out for the weekend.

Sure enough, at three fifty-five, someone cleared their throat at the doorway of their small office.

“Uh, Granger, McLaggen, something’s come up. I’ve got to head out. I’ll see you both on Monday.” He nodded at them curtly, before his face brightened, as if he had thought of something else. “Oh, and McLaggen, you can hold down the fort, can’t you?”

McLaggen responded eagerly, “Of course, sir. Whatever you need.”

Hermione ignored the exchange. Her boss was as much of a boor as her office mate was, only without the innuendo. Just because Cormac had started six months ahead of her, somehow she was supposed to grovel at his feet? He’d be waiting a long time for that to happen. Hermione put her head down and returned to her report, knowing that it was only a matter of minutes before he also left.

True to form, at five after four, she heard a familiar rustle. While his desk was always nearly empty, he made a show of straightening the few papers on it and gathering his belongings.

“Hey Granger, I guess you’re in charge now.”

He sauntered out the door.

* * *

It was probably silly that Hermione still thought about the crime fighting story from several weeks ago, but it just seemed so odd — so out of place. She thought through the couple mentions she had found in her father’s newspapers, but found there wasn’t really enough to make sense of whether there was something there or just a set of coincidences. Surely there had to be more information to help her connect the dots.

Her parents hadn’t mentioned seeing any additional reports; though that was to be expected. Only stories that were big enough, sensational enough, made the telly or the paper, even if there were dozens more incidents that hadn’t got the same attention. Still, it couldn’t hurt to take a look at some additional newspapers to see what else might have been reported. She decided to head to the British Library to do a little more digging. There she could find a broader selection of papers to flip through. It was Saturday; no one was expecting her, and given she would be in the muggle world, no one would even know to ask questions about her little outing.

Hermione stepped out of the Euston Square tube stop and crossed the road, heading towards her destination. She could have saved time Apparating to King’s Cross and walking from there, but that might have involved both a bit of nostalgia and possibly running into someone who knew her; so she went the Muggle way around.

It wasn’t the Hogwarts library, but she loved the BL just the same. She could appreciate any well-ordered space that allowed her to satiate her quest for knowledge, which was exactly what she needed right now.

After a quick stop at the Reference Enquiry Desk, Hermione was now surrounded by a table full of current British newspapers, each waiting their turn for her attention. Only the Times was indexed, which meant that she would need to search through the others by hand, just as she had in her father’s study. She supposed she could have searched online, and she probably would at some point, but given she didn’t have a clear idea of the proper search terms to uncover any articles that might be there, she was starting by diving into the printed copies.

Hermione began with the more traditional sources, before moving to the tabloids, first looking around the date that she had seen the broadcast — that was the most solid place to start. She hoped she might find an article that summarised what was known about this mystery crime fighter or might even point her to an earlier report. The approach proved to be a worthwhile strategy. She found a handful of reports about that incident and used them to uncover others.

In a couple hours, she had fingertips full of newsprint ink and had gathered a small stack of copies of the most helpful articles. As she scanned them, she was becoming more convinced of her theory that magic must be involved. Otherwise, it all sounded too strange, but the person was being careful not to expose themselves. From what she could tell, whoever it was, was helping others, but from the shadows.

It was all quite a mystery, but Hermione had spent long enough looking at the small type that filled the newspaper columns for today, so she returned the remaining papers to their shelves, and packed up her belongings. Stepping outside, she made a quick decision to forgo the Tube for a meandering walk through the city, so she could enjoy the sights and sounds and smells of London.

Her walk from the library brought her near a bookstore she liked, and she ducked inside to see what might look interesting. If one thought she had already had her fill of books for the day, one would be wrong; she had only been reading newspapers earlier. She hadn’t stopped to indulge in any of the BL’s collections, but here, she could scratch that itch, although on a much smaller scale. At least by herself, she could browse to her heart’s content, free from Harry and Ron’s exasperated sighs.

She wandered from aisle to aisle for a while, content to make a mental note of volumes she found interesting. Hermione had long since realised that she couldn’t buy every book. She tended to skip the fantasy aisle; there wasn’t much that would hold her attention on those shelves, given that truth often surpassed what Muggle authors could come up with. However, as she walked by it, something caught her attention and stopped her in her tracks.

Standing there, in the middle of the aisle, flipping through the pages of a book, stood none other than Draco Malfoy.

In Muggle London.

In a bookstore.

Holding a Muggle book.

“Malfoy?”

When she said his name, Draco looked up as if she had caught him with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. He fumbled the book he had been holding, and with less grace than she had ever seen him act, he slid it back on the shelf.

By the time he turned towards her, he appeared collected once again.

“Granger, funny to run into you here.”

She forced her mouth to close, knowing it had been hanging open.

“I could say the same.”

“Oh, I live not too far from here.”

Hermione racked her brain for possible Wizarding enclaves in the area and found none, not that that would have explained his being in a Muggle bookstore. She was sure she still sported a look of disbelief.

“I know this shop well,” he continued. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

She shook her head. This was so unlike any conversation she’d ever had with Malfoy. Her brain was struggling to make sense of it. Since he had returned to town, he’d only made it to the Friday night gatherings occasionally, and when he did, he mostly kept to himself. She had a feeling his attendance was more to appease his Slytherin housemates than anything else; although she suspected some of his relative quietness was also because there were other members of the group that were loud enough for all of them.

Give a Gryffindor a drink, wasn’t that how the saying went?

She shook her head. “Not really, I was just wandering about, looking to see what they had.”

“Well, your hands are empty. Isn’t there some unwritten rule about Hermione Granger and books? Aren’t you supposed to have an armful by now?”

She couldn’t help but smile at his gentle ribbing. It was so much more pleasant than their interactions at Hogwarts early on.

“And what about you, Malfoy?” She pushed back at him, peering down the aisle where he had just been standing. “Were you reading a comic book?”

She watched the tips of his ears turn pink and knew she must have guessed correctly.

“You were!” she said incredulously.

He waved it off. “Not really, I was just thumbing through one.” He dropped his voice, “Although, I find that many of them have parallels to our world.”

“And everything is even more fantastic than you can imagine,” she whispered back.

“You would know, wouldn’t you,” he replied without a trace of malice in his voice.

It was such an odd turn of events to see him away from the Wizarding world. Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Say, Granger, if you’re free, would you fancy a cuppa? I know a great place down the street.”

Clearly, the surprise showed on her face because he was quick to hold up his hands.

“I mean nothing by it, just a chance to get something to drink.”

Hermione looked at him oddly, recalling the recent conversation from the Leaky. “But aren’t you seeing someone?”

Purebloods were funny about such things; moreover, the Wizarding world was funny about such things. While she didn’t know who he was seeing, she had no interest in being marked as a usurper, particularly here, when nothing could be further from the truth.

For a moment he seemed confused, but then a look of understanding dawned on his face.

“No, I am otherwise unattached; that was Theo’s comment, not mine. However, even if I was, I hardly think a cup of coffee with a classmate would cause concern, particularly out _here_.”

True, no one would come across them in the midst of Muggle London, or at least the odds were rather low.

He raised one eyebrow, waiting to see what her answer would be.

She paused for a moment to consider, but not long enough that he would insinuate that she thought it was a problem, even if the invitation seemed out of place. It was just a cup of coffee, and for some reason, he seemed amenable to talking with her. It wasn’t something they had often done, but right now he was being friendly enough. Besides, she could always duck out early if it was too uncomfortable or uninteresting.

“Sure. Let’s do it, then.”

Draco gave a small smile, having perhaps guessed some of her mental calculus, and escorted her out of the bookstore and down the block to a quaint coffee shop. It took less than a minute to get there. Hermione hadn’t even had a chance to think of something to talk about before he was holding the door and ushering her inside.

“You weren’t kidding. This place is close.”

He showed her to a table in the corner and insisted that she sit while he placed their orders. She was a little shocked at the turn her day seemed to have taken. It wasn’t as if she and Draco had never had words, quite the opposite in fact. While their time together in eighth year had led to some clearing of the air between them, never in her wildest dreams would she have thought she would ever sit sipping coffee in a muggle coffee shop with Draco Malfoy.

After Hogwarts, he and Blaise had left to do whatever rich Wizards did upon finishing school; although Blaise had returned home and rejoined the Friday night crowd at the Leaky long before his friend did. She wondered if Malfoy’s extra time away was why he still seemed rather removed from everyone and everything. He had missed out on the delicate transition from Hogwarts to “life as grown-ups” as many of them joked. Granted, several of her friends had elves to help them with the tasks of daily living. Even Ron still relied on his mother to feed him regularly; so perhaps the qualification was important.

On the few Fridays he deigned to join the group, Malfoy seemed preoccupied, and he often left early and abruptly. Such behaviour wasn’t out of character, though; everyone dismissed it as his particular eccentricity. Here, one on one, Hermione wondered what version of him she might get. However, coming across him in the Muggle world was already mystery enough.

She decided to test the waters as soon as he took his seat.

“I wasn’t aware of a Wizarding enclave in this area.”

“Straight to the point then, Granger?” He raised an eyebrow and looked directly at her.

She held his gaze; she had never been particularly intimidated by the blond man across from her.

He gave a quick laugh, which served to break the tension between them.

“That’s because I don’t live in one.”

She waited for him to continue, hoping he would say more, but they were interrupted by the server placing their order on the table. Draco gestured to her to pick a pastry from the ones on the plate. She nodded her head in thanks and picked up her cup to take a sip, still trying to wait him out, so she wouldn’t have to ask the inevitable, but Malfoy seemed content to make her ask the question.

“Does that mean you live in a Muggle building?”

He seemed amused that she had finally given in to her impulse to ask.

“It does.”

“I had no idea,” she said in wonder.

It seemed like a stupid thing to say. She had no reason to know where he lived. In fact, had you asked her before now, she would have said that she thought that he lived at Malfoy Manor. After all, isn’t that where all Malfoys lived?

Thankfully, if Draco noticed her awkwardness, he didn’t dwell on it, although the corner of his lip turned up in response to what she was sure was a look of shock on her face.

“I’m sure you have questions.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Fair.” Draco took a sip of his coffee and sat back.

It was odd trying to make sense of this Draco Malfoy, who clearly had more to his story than he was telling. The boy she had known would have sooner poked his eye out than live among Muggles.

He seemed to take pity on her and dropped another morsel for her to chew on.

“After we left Hogwarts, I spent some time getting to know the world around me. I had already discovered that I couldn’t rely on all the things I had been taught, and I used the time I spent travelling to broaden my horizons. Funny thing about horizons and all, once you realise how far they go, it’s hard to see the world in the same way, because now you know what’s out there and you know all the problems with the way you were raised.”

He leaned forward slightly and broke off a piece of his scone.

“You know what it’s like to be curious, Granger, don’t you?”

Hermione nodded automatically, her mind racing as she tried to reconcile the man sitting across from her with the boy she had known. Pansy didn’t talk about him much, but she had said enough that Hermione knew that he was far more complicated than she had ever given him credit for.

There was much she wanted to know about him, about what made him tick, and she’d never really had the opportunity. But strangely enough, running into him in a bookstore in the Muggle world seemed enough outside of their pattern. It also made her wonder what other secrets she might learn from this suddenly more open version of the boy who had, often in equal parts, tormented and infuriated her when they were younger. She was full of questions and wondered if she could get him to take her into his confidence.

They were in uncharted territory, away from others who would have opinions or draw their attention; and out in the muggle world felt like neutral ground, where to her surprise, both of them were comfortable, so the real question was what his intention was in asking her to join him.

She noticed he was staring down at the table, playing with his mug, as her thoughts wandered, and she realised he might be feeling a little self-conscious. This was all so unlike the image he portrayed in the Wizarding world.

She made a quick decision that she would handle her quest for answers delicately, so as not to upset whatever goodwill seemed to be building between them over coffee and pastries; but clearly, he must know how strange all of this was.

“This all seems a bit surreal. I mean, this is so different from what I know of you. The Draco Malfoy in my head would never willingly spend time in the Muggle world.”

“The Draco Malfoy you knew needed to grow up.” He raised his eyes and looked directly at her. “I can’t change the past. We’ve had our differences-”

She snorted and he laughed in response, both of them acknowledging the truth and the absurdity of his statement. She looked away, but he pressed on.

“Okay, let me try again; I was a right prejudiced arse, Granger. I blindly accepted the horse shite my family raised me to believe. When we were younger, I made your life rather unpleasant, not only because I could but also because of something that you couldn’t change, something fundamental to who you are.”

He took a deep breath. “That’s not a complete apology, but it’s a start.”

Hermione sat back in her chair and took a sip from her cup again, trying to clear the intensity that had built between them. She knew what he would talk about next, about the scar on her arm and his family’s role in it. He had tried before, during Eighth year, but she had shut it down then. It was all too new, too raw at that point, and the tentative overtures between those who had fought on opposite sides had still been too fragile, particularly where he was concerned. Hermione found that she didn’t want to talk about that, at least not right now. She surprised herself by reaching a hand out and covering the one he had on the table, and instead of pulling away, he looked up at her with an inscrutable look.

“Malfoy, I appreciate it, but I don’t need an apology from you. We were both children. Pawns in a much larger game. And now, we’re not. I know you’re not the pointy-faced git who used to tease me, and I’m not the swot everyone accused me of being. We’re all far more complicated than our Hogwarts house affiliations would have us believe.”

At her words, his face relaxed, and the corner of his mouth twitched just a little. He glanced down to where her hand still rested on his, and she hurriedly drew it back.

“Sorry.”

“No need. After all, I’m the one who was trying to apologise.”

They both reached for their cups, and there was a shared moment of silence between them.

“You must be aware that the Wizarding world still doesn’t quite know what to do with me.”

Hermione frowned. She knew that there were some lingering prejudices from the war, but by and large, things were better. Most people had moved on and tried to build a more equitable future.

But there was only one Junior Death Eater.

She could see how Draco’s freedom might remind people of those who were no longer here. She hadn’t thought about that before, but also it didn’t entirely make sense. The Malfoys were known for their lavish donations to charity. The Prophet frequently featured them in the society pages.

“But you-”

Draco followed her thought. “People are always happy to take Galleons and glad-hand. But there are plenty of others who would prefer I stay out of sight. For families who have lost loved ones, I’m a constant reminder.”

“But you didn’t do any of that. You didn’t even want any of that.”

“Let’s be clear, Granger. Just because I personally didn’t have any interest in what happened, doesn’t mean I wasn’t raised to. Somewhere along the way, I just got unlucky.”

“Or, you realised that what was happening was wrong. I don’t understand. The Wizengamot acquitted you because of your youth — because your actions were coerced. No one should hold what happened against you. And why then? Why all the donations?”

Draco sighed and swirled the remaining coffee in his cup. “Just because I was acquitted doesn’t mean that the public at large stopped holding it all against me. Some may not have read about the trial, and others don’t care. It’s not as if the Malfoy story would garner anyone’s sympathy. I’m sure you realise that I’m the only person they can take their grief out on. Everyone else who was involved is in Azkaban or beyond the veil. As for the donations, it’s just money and we’ve got plenty. For once, it can do some good, and maybe, in time, the Malfoy name will stand for more than just murder and mayhem once again. Or maybe it just needs to die out altogether.”

Hermione looked at the man sitting across from her. His shoulders had curled inward as he spoke. He looked defeated, resigned, like he had come to believe the things that others said about him. She supposed she could put herself in his shoes, how much of a change of circumstance this had been; yet it was ironic that the boy who had introduced her to the word mudblood now willingly lived among Muggles. There was some sort of cosmic justice in that, she supposed.

“But out here, you’re just another guy.”

He nodded, “Exactly Granger. Out here, I’m not Draco Malfoy, with a mark on my arm and my soul that will never go away. Out here? I can be _anybody_.”

It was such a profound statement, and Hermione found herself wondering what sort of anybody Malfoy had decided to be.


	5. Excursus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for following along with the story! We're popping back into Draco's head just for a moment, thus the chapter title. Hopefully this confirms what some of you have been guessing at. Let me know what you think!

The city was quiet, and for that Draco was thankful, as it left him free to sit with his thoughts. That and the fact that he didn’t live in New York. London was far more manageable as far as tall buildings went. There just weren’t that many. From his perch on top of Tower Bridge, he could get a good view of both sides of the city, before deciding which path he might take tonight.

He wasn’t surprised when his thoughts drifted to the same subject they had returned to for much of the last few days.

Hermione Granger.

From the look on her face, he guessed it had been as much of a surprise for her to see him standing in the aisles of a Muggle bookstore as it had been for him to see her. She’d stood there gaping like a fish, shocked to see him somewhere wholly unexpected.

Sure, their paths crossed from time to time in the Wizarding World, mainly on Friday nights at the Leaky when he went, which wasn’t often. Friday nights were busy nights for him, which meant he either couldn’t or didn’t find time to meet up with his few friends and their friends. Everyone was ready to let off steam as the weekend began, which invariably led to a handful of people who took advantage of those who let their guard down. As a result, he typically begged off when Theo pressed him into joining the group who gathered at the Leaky.

_“You’re never around,” his friend complained. “People think you’re antisocial and elitist.”_

Anti-social? Perhaps. He wasn’t a fan of rowdy gatherings filled with people, some of whom held onto their lingering dislike for him when they didn’t even know him.

Elitist? While he had been taught to see himself as above others, nothing could be further from the truth at this point in his life.

Still, he found it easier to keep his distance than to have to put on a mask that resembled who everyone thought Draco Malfoy should be, rather than who he was. It was exhausting enough to have to keep up the rouse at the various society events his mother expected him to attend. He had no interest in putting on a show for a bunch of old classmates in his spare time.

He’d responded to Theo’s comment with his typical wit. Theo knew him better than anyone, although even his knowledge was only a slice of the person Draco was at this point.

_“I don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks.”_

_“Nor do I, but I wish I could get a drink with you now and then. Can’t you make at least a little effort? I feel like the rest of us are all moving on together, but you’re being left out through no one’s fault but your own. Hogwarts was a while ago now. No one cares about the past.”_

That wasn’t true. Plenty of people still held grudges. He heard comments grumbled in low tones as he walked through Diagon Alley. Draco ignored it, because it wouldn’t have done any good to do otherwise. They wanted to get a rise out of him. They wanted him to react, thus proving what they had thought all along.

No matter how much money he gave away, he was still the one with a mark on his arm. Theo didn’t know because he wasn’t subject to such things, given his father hadn’t been the fuck up Lucius had been. If only there had been someone to protect him or stand up for him, or at least get him out of that hellhole before it had consumed his life.

He turned around and faced the wind, feeling it blow across his cheeks and through his hair.

It wasn’t Theo’s fault, and besides, Theo was right. He should make a better effort to hold on to the few people who he considered to be friends.

So, Draco had promised to make an effort to attend, to appease Theo more than anything. He would do what he usually did — show up, keep to himself while nursing a drink or two, then make his apologies and head out, having checked the “I’ve made an appearance” box for another month or so, until Theo began nagging again.

Granted, it wasn’t all raging Gryffindors. He could strike up a conversation with the smarter of the two Patil twins, or one of the other Ravenclaws. The Hufflepuffs were more of a challenge — they were almost _too_ peppy.

And then there was Granger.

In some ways, she was so unlike her housemates. He’d always wondered what the conversation had been between her and the Sorting Hat, as it debated the merits of placing her in either Ravenclaw or Gryffindor. She had almost been a Hatstall. Surely, that had been the choice.

Clearly, Slytherin would not have been an option for her; unlike for him. The hat hadn’t even been set upon Draco’s head before it made the pronouncement for Slytherin, as his family had expected. As he had always known. It was part of his birthright.

But what if the two of them had ended up in Ravenclaw together? He wondered how things might have been different between them if they both had ended up in a house where the lines of blood purity weren’t so indelibly drawn. Not that he would have had the ability to openly befriend her, but at least then he would have been closer to her orbit. She would have been more to him than an enigma.

He could admit to some level of curiosity about the Muggle-born girl who bested him at every turn when they were younger. And he knew he owed her much more of an apology than their acquaintanceship had ever allowed him to offer.

But for her to wander into a bookstore on his block at the same time he was browsing the aisles… What were the odds?

His guard had been down, as down as it ever got after the war. Still, given Muggle London was blessedly free from witches and wizards, he tended to move about most of the city with ease, save the area closest to Diagon Alley, where it was far more common to come across someone venturing out from the magical world.

It had been a shock to his system to see her standing there. And of course, he had blurted out the first thing that came to his mind without thinking it through and then hoped she wouldn’t immediately turn on her heel and run off. Anything to quickly get away from him.

It wasn’t as if they were friends, after all. No longer classmates. Perhaps they could be considered polite acquaintances. They had been in the same space enough times, occasionally exchanging pleasantries about the weather (him) or work (her). However, a handful of Friday nights around a crowded table was vastly different than the two of them being in the same space for any amount of time.

As soon as the words had left his mouth, he’d waited for the rejection that was sure to follow.

Gryffindor that she was, she hadn’t turned and fled. Instead, for some reason she had accepted his invitation for coffee, and so he walked her down the block to the place he spent far more of his money and time than he cared to admit, with an odd feeling blossoming in his chest.

Perhaps he had done something right in all this time, if she was willing to interact with him, and not as part of Potter’s Pity Parade. True, they had spent time together holding up the wall during their Eighth Year, but he knew her overtures had been more out of obligation than anything else. She must have drawn the short straw. Nor had he been particularly open to her attempts. Back then, he still had so much to sort out in his head, trying to come to terms with who he was. While he was physically free from both his father’s and Voldemort’s tyranny, he had done none of the work to straighten out the jumbled mess in his head. Nor was he out from under the Ministry’s shadow.

It had been a precarious time for him, although for a moment, Granger herself had been a bit of a bright spot. The first time she joined him in the corner, he thought she was coming to give him a piece of her mind. He braced himself for the inevitable onslaught, but it had never come. Instead, the two of them had stood there, close in proximity, yet far apart in every other way that mattered. He had watched Theo slip easily into the mixed group, lubricated by an offering of alcohol, then Blaise and Pansy. As he watched his friends, he had known it might be awkward for them at first, but they would find a way.

It hadn’t been so easy for him. Nothing in those days was. Besides trying to figure out who he was in the aftermath of everything, he had been trying to cram the better part of two years of schoolwork into one, and trying to keep his head down and stay out of trouble, lest he find himself in Azkaban. Yet, the overtures that Granger had made, even if they were part of Potter’s effort to redeem them all, had made him think about her far more than he cared to admit, at least for a time.

He let go of whatever fascination he’d held as soon as he left Hogwarts behind. She was different now. When their paths crossed, she seemed more at ease, more comfortable in her surroundings. He was sure she was still a swot — this was Granger — but now, she seemed almost carefree in her confidence. It was almost the opposite for him; he still needed to be hyper-vigilant and carefully controlled. Perhaps he envied the ease with which she moved.

The fluorescent lights and retail space in which she’d come across him were a far cry from the halls of Hogwarts. But in other ways, it was all too familiar. Hermione Granger standing surrounded by books, with her hair wild and her cheeks rosy from being outside.

He shouldn’t have been so surprised. While many Muggle-borns tended to cleave to the magical world once they had the opportunity, if anyone would continue to seamlessly straddle the two worlds, it would be her.

An odd feeling had taken up residence in his chest. At the time, he had been more concerned about ignoring it, than giving a name to it, sensing that it was more complicated than he wanted to make space for right then. Now, looking back on it, he still felt the echo of whatever it was and could now more closely consider what had been gnawing at him. Was it a chance for resolution, to let her know just how sorry he was for everything that had happened between them, given he hadn’t been able to do so before? Was it hope that perhaps somewhere, over a coffee cup, he might find a small bit of the peace that continued to elude him?

As he’d stood in line to place their order, he worried for just a moment that whatever had sprung to life within him might not be so easily satisfied this time, and now, several days after having talked with her, here he was, still turning over his thoughts and recollections of the day, like an infatuated schoolgirl.

He wasn’t infatuated. Not at all. But he would admit to some curiosity, perhaps even interest. He’d long wanted to know more about the girl who, regardless of the stories that were told, had been an integral part of Voldemort’s downfall. Knowing Potter, there was no way the bumbling boy would have made it through without her by his side. While not much was known about all that had happened with them — and he had been privy to more than he wished — he suspected that the fact that the trio had all made it through had been largely her doing.

For Draco, Granger remained a bit of a question mark. His father had consistently chastised him for coming in second to the _blasted Mudblood_ , but instead of souring her for him, it had only piqued his interest. If everything was as his father had said, it shouldn’t have been possible for someone with stolen magic to best someone with the centuries of breeding and careful training that he’d had. His pedigree was second to none in the Wizarding world. Unlike her, he’d grown up with every advantage. Still, try as he might, he was unable to catch her in marks.

Out in the Muggle world, though, perhaps he was a bit of an unknown quantity, too. She didn’t know how much he’d changed. She had no reason to suspect him to be any different from the arse that had made her time at school difficult.

The thing was, though, he knew he was different, and for some reason he’d found himself itching for the chance to prove it to her. The coffee shop was a convenient excuse for him to have a chance to talk to her. Granted, showing up with someone else might lead to an offhand comment or two from the baristas who knew him as one of their regulars. It would decidedly be a departure from his normal pattern. Hell, he hadn’t even brought Pansy or Blaise or Theo to the coffee shop, given none of them had ever willingly stepped foot out of his front door. Coffee, though, was safe, easy. It was casual, and here in Muggle London, none of their friends would even be the wiser.

Switching from tea to coffee had been a bit of a revelation for him, but he found he liked the energy the thick dark liquid gave him after a night out. Blaise had been the first to introduce him to it, as they’d sipped on Espressos at the end of a good meal. It was almost as good as a Pepper Up, particularly when one didn’t have an Apothecary or a cauldron at hand.

Italian coffee. Turkish coffee. Moroccan coffee. He had developed quite a penchant for trying the local brew wherever he was. It was a way to orient himself to both the place and the people, whether he was silently sitting and taking it all in or engaging with someone, trying to learn the lay of the land.

That being said, Draco hadn’t even paid attention to the taste of the cup he’d had that day, given his focus on the witch who had been sitting across from him.

He decided it was time to change locations and Apparated to an open rooftop in the South Bank. It was always empty. He took up his perch at the edge where he could keep an eye on the streets below and let his mind wander back to the coffee shop and the woman who’d always bested him.

The two of them had chatted effortlessly. He’d known she’d be easy to talk to. Unlike many of the women who sought his attention, Granger could hold her end of a conversation. Further, she had also seemed to be invested in their chat, slipping into a familiarity that should have been much more difficult for the two of them to achieve, given their history and minimal acquaintanceship.

While their worlds were different, they had a lot in common. He hadn’t told her much about himself. He was far more content to listen to what she had to say for most of their time together, but his apology had been eating at him, sitting just under the surface of his encounter.

But even that she’d handled gracefully, insisting that he had been too young, a mere victim of circumstance, rather than someone who had been born and raised to play a part, which he had because it was the only choice he’d had.

It was refreshingly naïve of her to see him that way, and it was a change from the disdain with which most others treated him with, as if the mark on his arm would forever define him. He knew it didn’t, but the fact that he had been young and coerced didn’t mean his conscience was clear. He’d never be free of what the mark on his arm meant. Because the truth was, he could have done more. He should have found a way out of the madness.

Draco rubbed his hands over his face, trying to let go of mental images that had come unbidden.

It was better to leave the past in the past. Still, coffee with Hermione Granger had been an unexpected bright spot. If she could forgive him, he felt as if the weight of his debts had to be at least a little lighter.

He heard a crackle in his ear and reflexively raised his hand to cradle the earpiece he was wearing.

“There’s a report of an attempted robbery near Clapham Junction. Be on the lookout for two men in dark coats. One is carrying a pipe.”

Opportunists. Where there was a distraction, others would take the chance that the Bobbies would have their attention fixed elsewhere. Draco pulled up the collar of his coat and reached his hand into his pocket to find his wand. A small crack echoed as he Disapparated from the rooftop, landing in the deserted cemetery near the area, yet another of the many points he’d identified throughout the city during his long nights. He’d patrol on foot from here, hoping it would stay quiet, but not minding if there was a little excitement ahead.

This was why he begged off Friday nights at the Leaky; he had work to do.


	6. In which Hermione is once again the belle of the ball

“ _What do you mean you had coffee with Draco?_ ”

Hermione sat back and sighed. She hadn’t meant to say anything, but it had slipped out as she and Pansy caught up over lunch.

It wasn’t a secret or anything. It had just been just a conversation, but that it had happened at all seemed significant, and she didn’t want to betray his confidence.

Surely Pansy knew that Malfoy lived in the muggle world, though.

“It was nothing.” She brushed off, using her fork to spear a bite of chicken from the not-so-tasty salad she had picked from the menu. It had seemed like a good idea. “I ran into him in a bookstore in Muggle London and we decided to get coffee.”

“And?” Pansy leaned over expectantly.

Hermione chased the dry chicken with a mouthful of water before answering.

“And nothing. We talked for a bit and then we went our separate ways.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t nothing.” Pansy looked at her with a delicate arch to her eyebrow, which suggested she believed Hermione was being deliberately less than forthcoming, but she didn’t say anything else.

That was one of the things that Hermione liked about Pansy; in or out, you knew where you stood with her. She might choose to not say another word, but there was no mistaking that she definitely had lingering thoughts on the matter.

Hermione waited her out, not willing to volunteer any more information.

The dark-haired woman tapped her manicured nails on the table.

“You know I’ll just ask him.”

“Ask him whatever you want; there’s no more to tell. I think he was as surprised to see him as he was to see me.”

She did her best to keep her attention on her meal. That was far safer than letting Pansy get the idea that she was onto something — that coffee between the two of them had been anything more than that. Because it had just been coffee.

“And you talked?”

Hermione nodded, “We did.”

“And you didn’t kill each other.”

“Ouch. We aren’t schoolchildren any longer.”

Pansy held up a hand and examined her nails

“You know, I think he’s always had a bit of a thing for you.”

Hermione couldn’t help but gasp, inhaled the sip of water she had just taken, and then immediately started coughing.

Judging by the wandless Protego that Pansy had cast, Hermione guessed that the woman had some inkling that might be her reaction.

Pansy’s eyes twinkled in amusement, as Hermione finally stopped coughing and took another sip of water, careful to ensure it went down the right way this time.

“Let’s be honest, you were always the forbidden fruit.”

Hermione glared, but Pansy was unmoved.

“Unlike with me, it was more like kissing his sister. Blech.” Pansy shuddered.

She shook her head, unsure how to respond to such an outrageous comment.

“Who am I kissing? I don’t have a sister.”

Theo, who always seemed to appear at the juiciest moments, slid in across from Hermione and leaned over to peck Pansy on the cheek.

“Hello, darlings.”

“Theodore.” Pansy acknowledged.

“Hey, Theo.” Hermione gave him a smile, but then immediately turned her eyes back to Pansy, imploring that she save whatever explanation Hermione would insist on until later. Pansy did not need to drag Theo into this, whatever it was.

“What’d I miss?”

Pansy feigned looking at her watch. “Lunch. We’re almost done here.”

“I’ve got to get back to work.”

Unlike the two sitting across from her who had enough familial wealth that they didn’t have to work and set their own schedules, Hermione did, so she had a job and requirement to be in the office at certain times, even if her boss wasn’t a stickler for the rules when it came to applying them to himself.

“So who was kissing who?”

“No one was kissing anyone,” Hermione offered, gathering her things. There was still a chance she could avoid the absolute mortification she was sure was about to follow.

“Yet…” added Pansy.

Theo looked between the two women, puzzled.

Pansy sighed. “Granger bumped into Draco this weekend, and they talked.”

Theo’s mouth fell open.

“And given the world hasn’t come to an end, I gather it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.”

She looked at Hermione significantly, while using her hand to gently close Theo’s jaw.

“See, I told you. This is no small deal. Besides, I’m just happy to hear Draco was outside. I worry about him all holed up on his own all the time.”

Hermione frowned.

“But don’t you see him? He is your friend after all.”

“He almost always begs off, claiming he’s busy. You know how he likes to brood.” Theo rolled his eyes. “Always has one excuse or another. More recently, I figured he was busy with the mystery woman, but if he had lunch with you…”

“Not lunch,” Hermione insisted. “Just coffee.”

Theo looked unmoved.

“Semantics. The fact is, he’s always carried a bit of a torch for you, Granger.”

It was Hermione’s turn to look at Theo incredulously.

“See, I told you,” Pansy said smugly.

“I can assure you both that I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hermione moved to stand, holding her head high. She had better leave now before this conversation trailed any further down the rabbit hole.

“Good, then you won’t mind if I finish this?” Theo reached over and slid her picked-over salad in front of him.

Hermione shook her head, left her portion of the check, and turned to go.

“Goodbye, you two,” she called.

Neither answered, their heads were already huddled together. Much to her chagrin, Hermione knew exactly what the subject of their conversation was.

As she walked back to the Ministry, Hermione’s thoughts were racing. Draco Malfoy had had a thing for her? That seemed impossible, given how they’d treated each other over the years. Their Eighth Year had been different, however. It had been different for everyone, but particularly him. She had always thought that he was walking a fine line, trying to respect the Wizengamot’s sentence while figuring out what the new world meant. She remembered the feeling of his eyes on her, after she’d made the overtures towards him that she had.

 _Solely in the interest of unity_ , she thought emphatically.

In any event, given Draco had been back in England for over a year at this point, and this was the first conversation they’d had, she was sure that even if Pansy and Theo weren’t teasing her about Draco’s supposed crush; he had long grown out of it.

She wondered why that thought made her a little sad. It wasn’t as if she harboured feelings for him. She could admit that she was curious about the boy who always came in second in the class ranking, and who took it out on her by regularly trying to make her life miserable when they were young. He had apologised, she reminded herself. She smiled at the memory of his awkward, bumbling attempt at it, before she cut him off. It had seemed important for him to get that off of his chest.

That was why he had asked her to coffee, she realised. It was a chance to wipe the slate clean between them. Looking at it in that light, she was glad she had taken the time to go, and the conversation hadn’t been half bad, either. If that was what he needed, she hoped that he might be less formal around the group next time he came for their Friday night gathering; perhaps he’d even choose to stay a bit longer, since he now knew he had nothing to fear from her.

She had meant what she’d said to Draco. She didn’t need an apology from him. That wasn’t how forgiveness worked. Hermione had had to do her own work in the aftermath of the war. She had learned that forgiveness was something you offered for yourself, not for the other person. When it was all said and done, Hermione could either harbour resentment or let it go, and she had embraced the possibilities that lay ahead.

It sounded like Draco may still have some work to do to forgive himself, but that was his work to do, not hers.

By three o’clock, Hermione had finished everything on her to do list, so she pulled out the stack of copied news articles that she was slowly working through to index location and time, looking for any discernible patterns in the actions of the mysterious crime-fighter.

“What’s that?” Cormac asked, eyeing her colour-coded pile.

“Just a side project,” she answered, not willing to give him any additional information.

“Leave it to you, Granger, to actually make more work for yourself,” he teased, before busying himself with something else.

She ignored him and returned to what she was doing until a memo for her came whizzing through their open door.

She read the note and stood, pleased to have a distraction.

“I’ll be back. I’m needed upstairs.”

She headed towards the elevators, all too happy to leave her office mate behind.

Technically, she wasn’t _needed_ upstairs. The note had been from Harry, who had asked her to drop by when she got a chance. But for Cormac’s presence, Harry would have come to find her. However, given she shared an office and no one particularly liked her office mate, including Hermione, it was easier for her to head to the Auror bullpen and find Harry there.

He cast a _Muffliato_ as soon as she sat down, trying to avoid the extra ears that came with being in the close quarters of the Auror office.

“What’s this I hear? You went on a date with Malfoy?”

Harry’s eyebrows had lifted to a point where they looked as if they were trying to disassociate themselves from the rest of his face.

 _Theo_. She should have known. His penchant for gossip was more predictable than Umbridge was known for being unpleasant. She hoped that he’d at least keep his comments limited to those in their mutual circle. The last thing she needed was someone getting wind of such a rumour that wasn’t a close friend of either of theirs. She could only imagine how Malfoy would react to seeing his name associated with hers with some type of implication behind it. After all, while the war was over, Pure-bloods were still plenty particular.

Hermione shook her head.

“I bumped into him and we got something to drink.”

“You had drinks with Malfoy?”

Hermione took her finger and drew a line down the centre of his forehead. Her gesture amused him, and his eyebrows retreated somewhat.

“Coffee, Harry. Although I’m sure Theo has crafted some elaborate tale of a clandestine affair.”

“Well, remember how he always used to stare at you during Eighth Year? It wouldn’t entirely be surprising if the two of you-”

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you, Harry James Potter.”

Hermione stood abruptly and began walking back towards the elevators.

Were all of her friends insane?

* * *

She returned to her office to find Mr Pennyweather and McLaggen well into a conversation.

“Miss Granger, good of you to join us.”

Hermione bit back several retorts before nodding in response. They hadn’t had a meeting scheduled and she was caught up on her reports.

“I’m sorry. Did I miss a memo? I was called upstairs for a moment.”

“Yes, yes,” her boss waved off. “Cormac filled me in. I trust everything is all right upstairs? They can spare you for the rest of the afternoon?”

Hermione felt colour rise to her cheeks. She had been gone for no more than fifteen minutes. It wasn’t as if it was unheard of to get called into a meeting or stop and catch up with a friend. After all, the Ministry was an institution that ran on relationships. Besides, both her boss and Cormac often disappeared for indeterminate amounts of time.

The look on both of their faces suggested to Hermione that whatever her boss was doing in their small office wasn’t something she particularly wanted to hear.

She took her seat and waited to see to what they owed the pleasure of his company.

Mr Pennyweather was an older wizard whose love for Wizarding traditions ran deep. He took pride in who he knew, rather than what he did. Hermione knew that was why he enjoyed having her on his staff, given she came with at least a little cachet. He could tell everyone how he had given the poor Muggle-born girl a chance.

Meanwhile, Hermione did her best to ensure that his ineptness and sense of detachment from the Muggle world didn’t negatively impact the work done in the department. Cormac seemed to have a similar affect, which was why the two of them got on so well. Meanwhile, she seemed to be the only one actually worried about the quality of the job they did.

“In any event,” her boss continued, his face brightening. “I stopped by because I have something for the two of you.”

He reached into an inner pocket of his robes and pulled out two tickets.

“There’s an event on Friday that would be a great opportunity to get your name out there a bit.”

He gave Cormac a significant look, and Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Everyone already knew who she was, although that didn’t mean they knew the least bit about her. More importantly, all three of them knew that the only reason Mr Pennyweather had even suggested this was because he didn’t care to go himself. She wondered what the competing event might be. Did the event conflict with his monthly forays to the Granian racing course? Was there some rival department manager he was trying to avoid?

While McLaggen looked chuffed, Hermione could think of few worse fates than having to give up one of her evenings to parade around at an event and make small talk with an assortment of Ministry middle managers. There was no part of the evening’s festivities that she would see as a good time; yet it hadn’t been a request, her boss expected them to attend in his stead.

Even worse, Cormac felt the situation had created an opening that he was all too happy to take advantage of. After Mr Pennyweather had left, Cormac leaned over her desk.

“Good thing we’ll both be there, Granger. You won’t be able to bring a date with just one ticket, but I’ll be there to escort you. Don’t you worry your pretty, little head.” Cormac pointed out less than helpfully.

She would have been all too happy to wipe the grin off his face, if doing so wouldn’t have resulted in having to complete a ream of reports and attend mandatory workplace trainings. 

* * *

Later that evening, away from the wild delusions of her friends, Hermione's thoughts returned to her project, given she hadn’t been as productive the rest of the afternoon after Harry’s observation. It was just like her friends to jump to the craziest possibility when a far simpler explanation would suffice, and she wondered whether the same logic might apply to this situation.

She took out the stack of colour-coded and annotated articles once again and began sorting them into piles based on the type of crime that had been thwarted. From what she could tell, there didn’t seem to be a real pattern to any of the incidents she had found reported in the paper, save for the fact that this seemed to be a London phenomenon. There were no stories of crime-fighters showing up in Liverpool or Sheffield.

The events spanned nearly twelve months, though she couldn’t be sure she had found the very beginning. There was quite a bit of guessing involved as she tried to divine which of the earliest stories might be connected and which might be mere coincidence. Plus, she had to consider whether there were copycats. Any report of the unusual or fantastic usually brought out others also wanting to try their luck. She set the report of the man found wearing a duck suit to the side. That didn’t seem to be a lead worth pursuing, plus there was a quote from him stating that he just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

The earliest article involved the breakup of an attempted robbery, along with suppositions of who had thwarted the crime and why. Over time, the reports morphed from curiosity to speculation to something resembling hero worship. It was such an odd combination. Hermione felt like she could see traces of magic just around the edges of the stories, but there was nothing overt, nothing that made clear that someone was using their magic to do this. That must be why the Ministry didn’t seem to be aware.

Maybe Hermione was more attuned to the signs of magic in the Muggle world, given her role in Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. There, you had to think broadly, if you wanted to understand how both Muggles and Wizarding-kind might be negatively affected by those who might do more than was strictly allowed under the confines of the Statute of Secrecy. But amongst these pages, there were no rogue artifacts, and only a hint of what she saw as magic, where the Muggle news assumed superpowers — someone who moved without being seen by those who they helped, alleged criminals restrained with no recollection of how they had got there.

She suspected the Muggle government would easily become reliant on someone who could solve their problems without having to get their own hands dirty. More nefariously, they would most likely seek to control or drive out what they couldn’t replicate or understand. This was why the Ministry worked so hard to keep the Wizarding world a secret. It would be dangerous if Muggles had any inkling about what was actually possible when you had magic on your side, as it cut both ways, good and bad.

The most recent mention she’d clipped from the paper just a few days ago. She scanned the article for details, giving it an orange tab before placing it in a pile with other attempted robberies.

The paper quoted the suspect. “Yeah, I did it and he caught me. So what? No, I didn’t get a good look at him, my mask was pulled down, but I socked him good, I did. Landed a real satisfying punch. Look, I’m just an average bloke trying to make it in the world. Let’s talk about systemic injustice, not some idiot running around trying to make things harder for us little guys.”

Hermione got a good chuckle out of the interview. If, indeed, this had been the masked man, she hoped he was at least okay.

* * *

While Hermione wasn’t a big fan of such events, on the night in question, she found she was at least a little excited for the opportunity to get dressed up. It wasn’t too often that she got to trot out anything more extravagant than the skirts or trousers and blouses that she wore to work most days, with her hair pulled back to keep it out of her way.

She had settled on a little red dress that suited the occasion. It was fun and flirty to appease her reformed sensibilities, but was still entirely appropriate for a work event. She then paired it with heels to match after adding both cushioning and stabilising charms. The saving grace of working witches everywhere, she thought, as she slid her feet into the shoes that were higher than she would have been able to wear on her own.

While she didn’t have a date, she had the assurance that Harry would be there; he got trotted out to almost everything. As long as she didn’t have to keep dodging McLaggen, who somehow seemed to think that her world would come to an end if he wasn’t there to escort her.

She hadn’t found it necessary to disabuse him of the notion and settled for the fact that it would be obvious that she wasn’t interested in him, yet again. No amount of Galleons was enough to convince her to be in his company for longer than was necessary.

She dusted herself off after stepping through the Floo and took in the decorations that dotted the atrium. As expected, it was yet another over-the-top Ministry-sponsored charity event designed to raise money for whatever project was the priority du jour. This time, an entire flock of golden birds had been magicked to flutter about overhead in the hall, as a not-so-subtle reminder of the point of the evening. The din of many voices competed with a stringed ensemble to see who could be the loudest. The atrium had the worst acoustics. She never understood why everyone insisted on holding events here, particularly when there had to be better options, given the donors that were invariably invited.

 _If I worked in Magical Creatures, Golden Snidgets would not be my priority_ , she thought as she scanned the room and took in the rest of the decor. She could be glad that Quidditch had moved on from Snidgets to Snitches long ago and that there was an effort to help the endangered birds. But to her, the plight of House Elves and werewolves, among others, were far more important than the golden bird that had made possible the popular pastime she preferred to ignore. In fact, werewolves shouldn’t even be considered Magical Creatures; they were all people who were dealing with their lycanthropy any way they could. In any event, since she didn’t work in Magical Creatures, it wasn’t her concern.

Much to her dismay, Harry had been detained at work, which meant that Hermione was date-free and had to keep herself entertained. It was easy enough when she was with Harry; everyone wanted to chat with him. No one cared as much what she was up to when he was around, which she was perfectly happy about. As she made small talk with the Assistant Deputy of Magical Games and Sports who, to no surprise, was in full support of the Golden Snidget campaign, she kept watch on the doors, hoping to see when Harry might arrive. While doing so, she did her best to keep a neutral look on her face, trying to not roll her eyes at how ridiculous it was that she had to lose an evening to this.

It was just as she had feared, an endless parade of middle managers and society types, a room full of people wanting to be seen or doing their best to make connections with whoever they perceived to be the _right_ people. All the while, the real power brokers stayed away from these events.

She hadn’t seen the Minister and there were only a few members of the Wizengamot. The truly important people at the Ministry knew better and could afford to stay away. Most people at her level hadn’t been invited, which left the odd mix she was now navigating.

Even more awkwardly, Harry’s absence meant that she needed to monitor where Cormac was. He would readily assume that her lack of a date meant that he would be an appropriate stand in. Several times already she had had to hastily excuse herself from whatever conversation she was in when she saw Cormac spot her and begin to move in her direction. Not long ago, she had just ducked away from a conversation with Imelda Rosencrantz that had been far more interesting than the one she now found herself in; they’d have to pick up their discussion of pending changes to the Hogwarts curriculum another time.

Her breath caught as she saw Cormac on her trail again. He was nothing if not persistent. She bid her apologies once more and weaved through the crowd until she was sure she had put sufficient distance between them, and then changed directions, deciding to head to the loo, but then someone grabbed her arm and stopped her.

“There you are, Hermione. I’ve been trying to catch you all evening.”

His voice was a bit breathless, and she knew the gig was up. She gathered up every bit of her patience as she turned to face him.Her luck had run out.

“I’m sure you’d rather be on my arm than muddle about on your own. You know how important portraying the right image can be. Now, stick with me. I’ll show you how these types of events go and maybe even introduce you to a few people.”

Cormac’s face was lit up like a kid looking in the shop window at Honeydukes. There was no way out, save if Harry came to rescue her. She could only hope he would arrive sooner rather than later.

“Don’t you look absolutely ravishing. Ooh…here…”

He took out his wand and tapped it to his bowtie, which instantly changed to match the colour of her dress.

“Now, everyone will know that we’re together.”

…which was precisely what she didn’t want.

If the evening had been tedious before, it was positively mind-numbing after. Hermione plastered on a smile as Cormac dragged her around the room. If one more person commented on what a lovely couple the two of them made—

“You look like you’re ready to spit nails, Granger. What’s got you all worked up?”

She heard a voice over her shoulder.

Malfoy.

She turned away from where Cormac was holding court with one of the vapid Ministry cronies, extolling the indispensable nature of the work he did.

“Am I interrupting?” Malfoy asked in a low voice.

She didn’t dare say what she was thinking, that she wanted to be anywhere but where she currently was. Instead, she put all the emotion she could into her eyes. She could only hope that Malfoy would get the hint and whisk her away.

The irony that Hermione would rather be rescued by Draco Malfoy than stuck with Cormac was not lost on her. She felt like she was at a repeat of the Slug Club, trying to figure out how to escape him _again_. At least this time, he wasn’t as handsy, but it was still early.

“Say, McLaggen.” Malfoy interrupted the discussion between the two other men. “Mind if I borrow Granger for a bit? I’ve got a bit of an issue with a cursed toaster I came across, and she promised she’d straighten me out.”

Cormac glanced over, his attention disrupted. “Hmm? Oh, sure, Malfoy. Just make sure to bring her back before too long.”

Hermione was fuming. _Bring her back before too long?_ What was Cormac thinking? She was not an object to be passed around. She had been doing him a favour by consenting to be on his arm and not creating a scene for as long as she had. Malfoy held out his arm, and she readily took it, allowing him to lead her away.

“My apologies if I interrupted. It looked like you needed rescuing.”

“No, your timing was wonderful. He caught me half an hour ago and I haven’t been able to get free. He’s a bit of a leech, that one. The minute you’re in his clutches, it’s hard to get loose.”

Draco chuckled. “Well, we can’t have that, now can we? I’m happy to be of assistance.”

“Say, what are you doing here, anyway?”

She tipped her head to look at him, not missing the impeccable tailoring of his dress robes, though they were quite a contrast with the more casual attire he had been wearing when she'd last seen him.

“Why would a former Hogwarts Seeker with plenty of Galleons be invited to an event seeking donations to create a habitat for the preservation of the Golden Snidget? I don’t know, Granger. The logic eludes me.”

She laughed. He was being sarcastic, but for once, they were in on the joke together, instead of on opposite sides. If her newfound familiarity with Malfoy seemed odd, it felt completely natural. Was it possible that over the course of one conversation, they had found a common ground that had been lacking previously?

She watched the corner of his lip curl up.

“Might I convince you to dance? We may do a better job of avoiding your erstwhile date on the dance floor?”

“He’s not my date,” she frowned.

If anything, her pout made his face light up more. “Oh, you’ve made that entirely clear, but somehow I don’t think he entirely agrees, even if it’s only aspirational. Besides, the two of you are matching and everything.”

She gave him a look of utter exasperation. “I had absolutely nothing to do with that.”

He chuckled at that, unable to contain his mirth any longer.

He led her onto the dance floor, and they joined the other dancers. Draco was a rather skilled dancer, which didn’t surprise her. It was common knowledge that Pureblood children were often schooled in several extracurriculars, including the social arts, before heading to Hogwarts. Still, the ease with which he spun her left her surprised, if not a bit breathless.

“You’re good at this.”

He sighed. “Growing up at the Manor, it was expected. Otherwise, you’d stick out like a sore thumb at all the balls and parties to attend.”

“You make it sound tedious.”

“Isn’t it though?” His eyes swept the room, plotting their path. “The same old people talking about the same things. Most of them don’t even like each other, but they pretend to. Everyone is nice when they want something from you.”

Hermione looked up at him, trying to put a name to the emotion she heard in his voice. Was it that he seemed sad? Wistful? Resigned?

Draco looked down at her and stopped moving. For a moment, the two of them stood there while the other couples on the dance floor moved around them without missing a beat.

No doubt the product of other pureblood dance classes, Hermione thought.

She looked at the contours of his face; it was so angular. He was not unlike the boy she had gone to school with, but he had lost the vestiges of youth, having traded them in for a chiselled jaw and a light coating of stubble. His eyes were such an unusual shade of grey, like storm clouds as they raced across the sky, with the faintest flecks of blue, although she noted a green tinge under one of his eyes, like a bruise that hadn’t quite healed.

His expression slipped into a lopsided smile.

“See, here we are dancing and no one’s heads have exploded or anything. I’m disappointed.”

She startled, surprised by his comment.

He narrowed his eyes just a fraction. “From Eighth Year, Granger.”

She’d remembered what he had said; that wasn’t the source of her surprise. What had shocked her was that he remembered the offhand comment he had made several years earlier, as they had stood next to each other, holding up the wall.

“Well, maybe it’s the wrong crowd for that,” Hermione tried to cover, but he had already begun moving them around the floor again, and the moment was lost.

Had he treated that like an inside joke between them? Hermione’s head was spinning. Something must have shifted between them after their conversation in the Muggle world. Now she wondered how far it extended. Was he simply looking out for her? Trying to put her at ease? Was there something to the chiding of their friends?

She looked up at him again, wondering what she might see in his face, but this time, he seemed to be looking at the side of the room and not her.

The end of the song had brought them to the edge of the dance floor, and she realised that he was preparing to turn her loose. Should she say something? Ask if he’d consider one more twirl around the floor so she could avoid Cormac a little longer? Would that be odd?

“Ah, Hermione, I’ve been looking all over for you. Sorry I’m late.”

Harry stood next to them, looking as if he had hurriedly donned his dress robes. He dragged his hand through his unruly black hair, a big grin on his face.

Malfoy dropped his hands from hers, as if she was radioactive. 

“Potter.”

“Malfoy.” Harry acknowledged, amused to see the two of them together.

Draco turned towards Hermione. “Well, Granger, you are in expert hands now. You won’t have to worry any longer.”

He gave her a nod and then stepped back from her and Harry, disappearing into the crowd.

“What did he mean by that?” Harry looked puzzled.

Hermione shook her head. “Cormac took your absence to mean he was my date. Charmed his bowtie to match my dress and everything.”

Her best friend chuckled, finding amusement in her discomfort. “Well, isn’t your dance card all filled up this evening, Miss Granger.”

Hermione swatted his arm.

“I wouldn’t have had to dance at all, if you hadn’t been delayed at work. Everything okay?”

“Better now,” he grinned. “Say, did you want to keep dancing?”

Hermione shook her head and watched the relief float across Harry’s face. Unlike Malfoy, Harry did not have years of dance lessons under his belt, nor had he had much incentive to improve over the years. Dancing with Harry was always an awkward affair, and Hermione would just as soon avoid it. She preferred to keep her toes intact.

“Well then, let’s go mingle.”

He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and handed one to her.

That she could do.


	7. In which Hermione kinda, sorta ends up on a date

He was watching her again. It was another Friday night with the gang at the Leaky. Unlike most weeks, Malfoy had shown up, and every time Hermione glanced his way, she seemed to catch his eye for a moment before he looked away. It was just like Eighth Year all over again. Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat, feeling his gaze on her. It was so obvious to her; she felt like everyone must think that something was going on between the two of them. Yet, as she looked at the others gathered around, no one seemed to be paying either of them any attention.

Theo casually draped his arm over the back of her chair as he laughed at something Harry had said from across the table, and Hermione took a chance to look over at Malfoy again, noting that the grip on the bottle he was holding seemed far tighter than it needed to be.

Malfoy was usually quiet at these gatherings, always taking everything in, but never saying much in return, as if he disliked drawing attention to himself. It was so such a contrast from when they had been at school. It surprised her that she hadn’t realised that before now, but then again, she hadn’t really been paying attention to Malfoy as he flitted about on the periphery of their gatherings. Now that she had got to know him just a little, however, she was finding him harder to ignore.

Just last week she’d stopped to read an article in the Daily Prophet that declared the Ministry gala she’d attended a smashing success, with the Malfoy Family having made a sizable donation to protect the Golden Snitch habitat. Not that she wouldn’t have noted it before, but suddenly she seemed more aware of every mention of the Malfoy name.

“I’ve got to go to the Little Girls’. Granger? Perhaps you’ll go with me?”

Pansy’s voice cut through her reverie and Hermione became aware that at least one person was paying attention either to the subtle game of cat and mouse that she and Malfoy seemed to be playing, or to her inattention to the rest of the goings on at the table. Her tone made clear it wasn’t a question.

Hermione excused herself and followed as Pansy made her way through the crowded pub. Better to put some distance between her and Malfoy, even if it meant that she’d get the third-degree in the bathroom.

As suspected, the trip to the loo had nothing to do with actually using it. Pansy stood at the mirror and made a show of reapplying her still-perfect lipstick.

“So, you good?”

It was just like a snake to give you an opening and see what you would do with it. Thankfully, Hermione had been friends with the Slytherins for long enough that she knew all their tricks.

She took out her own lip gloss and touched up her own lips, ignoring the subject on which Pansy wanted her to comment.

“Yeah, fine. You?”

Pansy rolled her eyes and turned to look directly at her, dropping all hints of subterfuge. “You two are killing me. The tension between you is so thick, you could cut it with a knife. He’s been staring at you all night. And I know you are completely aware of that fact.”

Hermione tucked the tube back into her purse.

“And?”

Malfoy could look all he wanted, but he was still him and she was still her. A cup of coffee. A friendly dance. A social gathering. All of those were safe and easily explainable. Their renewed acquaintance had probably aroused his curiosity. She was a novelty in his world. She refused to give any serious thought to the little seed that her friends had planted in her head. And even if she did, she wasn’t sure what her thoughts on the matter might be.

At this point, everything was a jumble; she could admit to that. Not that she hadn’t thought at least a little about how it had felt as he had twirled her around the floor, but then again, he had probably danced with several people over the course of the night and had just taken pity on her because of Cormac.

…Although, she hadn’t seen Malfoy on the dance floor after their dance, though. In fact, she hadn’t seen him at all after he handed her off to Harry.

Pansy looked positively frustrated.

“Well? Are you going to do something about it?”

“What do you mean? Just because he’s looking at me-”

“He’s looking at you because he’s interested, Granger.” The black-haired girl rolled her eyes. “But he doesn’t think he’s got a shot.”

“I don’t know that that’s true at all, Pansy. Besides, what exactly is it you’re suggesting?”

She threw her hands up in the air, exasperated. Curiosity about Malfoy was one thing, but what Pansy was proposing was something else entirely.

“You need to throw him a bone or something; let him know that it’s okay to make a move. I don’t know. At least do the rest of us a favour and put us out of our collective misery. That is, if you’re interested.”

Hermione bit her lip as she thought for a moment. It was such an odd conversation to be having, but Pansy knew Malfoy better than almost anyone. If Pansy had seen something in his interactions, that was significant. Perhaps that meant there was some interest on his part that Hermione hadn’t given credence to.

If Hermione was honest, she knew she wouldn’t mind getting to know Malfoy better. Much to her surprise, the boy who had been loathsome and awkward in equal parts seemed to have become a far more intriguing man. She had thought that since the coffee shop.

The weight of Pansy’s words hung in the air, but Hermione didn’t feel that it was anything she needed to act on. Before she would even consider whether there was anything to it, she needed to get to know him, to learn more about how and why he’d changed, about who he was and how he saw the world. Maybe next Friday she’d sit near him, instead of Theo, so they could talk. Maybe even tonight, if there was an empty chair next to him, she’d slide into it so they could chat.

But when she and Pansy returned to the table, Malfoy’s seat was empty. He’d already left.

* * *

As soon as the lift doors closed, Hermione knew she was in trouble. Not that kind of trouble, good trouble. The Minister for Magic had jumped on right as the doors were shutting. There was only one other person on the lift, someone who she thought might work in the Floo Network Authority. Sure enough, they leaned over and pressed the button for Level Six.

It was unusual to see the Minister for Magic without someone milling around, either a department head trying to curry favour or an assistant trying to keep him on task. Hermione wondered if he might be returning from a trip to the Department of Mysteries, or maybe he had slipped out for a stroll.

He nodded at the other two occupants of the elevator solemnly, although his eyes were bright as he nodded at her.

“Mister Armentrout; Miss Granger.”

“Minister,” she responded.

The two of them tended to observe formalities when others were around, but when the lift stopped and the other passenger stepped off, Kingsley was quick to drop the pretense.

“How are you, Hermione?” he asked before abruptly changing gears. “More importantly, when are you going to come work with me? You know your talents are being wasted, and I can’t imagine the work is that interesting.”

Hermione sighed. This was not the first time he had brought this up, but in the past, she’d waved it off as not being the right time. Things had been too new with her parents, or too early in her work at the Ministry. She had been trying to avoid her tendency to rush in and save the day, particularly when she lost all semblance of herself in the process. That was why she had become someone with boundaries between the work she did and the rest of her life, and she would have to have an excellent reason before she breached those.

“I appreciate the confidence, Kings. It seems you already have things well in hand.”

“But there’s more we could be doing,” he pressed. “Think about it, please. You’ve twiddled your thumbs in Muggle Artifacts long enough. When you’re ready, set up something with my assistant. Let’s talk about the options available for you, where you could really make a difference.”

She nodded in acknowledgement. Kingsley had often kidded about her coming to work with him, but this was different. He sounded so earnest. Was it that here, it was just the two of them, whereas before there had been others milling around? She’d have to give the interaction further thought when she had time. On principle, she wasn’t opposed to working with Kings, and the longer she suffered through working with McLaggen and her boss, it seemed more tempting.

A bell chimed. It was Hermione’s floor. She took a moment to collect herself. Perhaps ending up in the elevator with Kings had been a bonus. Given there weren’t extra ears around, she might be able to garner some information of her own.

“Say, Kings, do you know what a superhero is?”

“A what?” He looked perplexed.

“A superhero. It’s a Muggle thing — someone with abilities that they shouldn’t have, but usually in one area, like super hearing or extra speed.” She paused as she gauged his surprised reaction and tried to wave it off. “I was just wondering.”

She didn’t want to pique his interest without having more to go on. There was still so much she didn’t know about the mystery person and their activities. And besides, if it was the right time for her to move on from her position, she didn’t need any complications.

“In any event, it’s good to see you, Kings. I’ll give serious thought to what you said.”

He gave her a warm smile. “Please do.”

The doors slid open and she stepped out. Now she had two things to think about from their brief interaction. First, it might be time to consider a job change. And second, she had confirmed that whatever was going on in London was something that the Minister wasn’t aware of.

It felt odd that she seemed to be the only one amongst so many who was aware of the actions of what looked like a rogue wizard, but the Wizarding world was so insular, tending to focus only on what was in front of them, unless they were forced to look outward. It didn’t surprise her. Though, for as long as this person seemed to have been flying under the radar, it was curious that they hadn’t messed up and drawn the attention of the Ministry.

* * *

“Granger?”

She stopped in her tracks.

There were so few people who called her by her surname at this point, and even fewer who said it with a familiarity as if it were her given name. Yet here she was in her neighbourhood — a decidedly Muggle neighbourhood, on her way to the store when someone called to her. Hopefully, she could be forgiven for her pause. She recognised the voice, and being called out by this particular person in a place so far from normal was unexpected, although perhaps he’d felt the same way when she’d called his name in the bookstore several weeks ago.

Fate was a funny thing. To Hermione, Divination was a crock, prophecies were iffy at best, but that didn’t mean there weren’t larger forces at play. One just couldn’t read about them in the bottom of a teacup. Take the Centaurs and their study of the heavens — they saw things, read things, knew things, based on the positioning of the stars in the sky and the planets as they orbited around. She could appreciate that, even if she couldn’t fully understand the way the universe decided to have its fun.

Still, the ways connections manifested between seemingly unconnected events or people, even, were sometimes completely off the wall.

It had been a random act that she had walked home the way she had on the day that she had gone to the library all those weeks ago. She could have just as easily hopped on the Tube or popped over to see her parents, but she had done none of those things, she’d chosen to walk.

It was another coincidence that she had spotted the bookstore along the way and stopped in to browse its shelves, her head turning at precisely the right moment to notice the shock of platinum blond hair and register who she was looking at. 

It had been a completely different series of events that had brought Draco Malfoy to be at that place at the same time, for him to have also been in that particular bookstore, standing there in the aisle where she had happened to turn her head.

And here he was, yet again.

Hermione didn’t know what to think about their paths crossing; they weren’t soul mates or anything ridiculous like that, but even a betting pool wouldn’t have recognised the odds on them coming across the other not once but twice. It was more akin to being struck by lightning.

She turned towards the voice to find Malfoy looking at her with a sheepish grin, his face a bit flushed in surprise.

She laughed at his expression. “Clearly we have to stop meeting like this.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in response. “Where are you off to?”

“I was just heading to get a few things at the market before heading home. I live near here.” She tilted her head. “And you?”

“I was just-” He paused, biting his lip in a most un-Malfoy way. “Say, have you eaten? Any chance you want to grab some dinner?”

The gesture seemed more purposeful than incidental, Hermione thought, but the encounter was so entirely unexpected, she was inclined to see where it might lead.

“Sure, but are you in a hurry? I really do need to get a couple things, otherwise I’ll just have to do it tomorrow.”

Malfoy seemed fine with the detour. “Lead the way.”

He followed her around the busy grocery store. She had expected a few comments on her selections or on the other shoppers, but he had largely been quiet, letting her focus on the task at hand. He seemed comfortable enough, like he didn’t do a lot of grocery shopping, but it wasn’t new to him either. She’d have to ask him if she had the chance, as she suspected he would be one of those that made liberal use of house-elves, like Theo, who she was sure couldn’t feed himself if he had to.

When they reached the checkout, he reached over and picked up her bags without asking and waited as she completed her transaction. Normally, she would have cast a charm to make them weightless, so they wouldn’t be a burden for her to carry, but Malfoy didn’t seem to struggle with them at all.

They chatted amicably on the walk to her house, and as they reached her front stairs, she turned to him again. Did she take the groceries from him? Invite him up? What an awkward moment.

He seemed to key in to her dilemma and rescued her from it, handing the bags over to her.

“I’ll wait for you here.”

Hermione started to protest and invite him upstairs, but decided not to. That might have been a step too far, having Malfoy in her flat. Besides, all the papers from her investigation were currently strewn about. She’d look like a crazy woman if someone saw all of her piles and scraps of paper with theories sketched on them; and while she could use a spell to quickly clean it up, that would disrupt her careful organisation.

She nodded and climbed the stairs, thankful for his thoughtfulness. It might have been awkward for him, too, but for different reasons.

She placed the grocery bags on the counter, hurriedly putting away only the things she needed to so she could get back downstairs, and then decided to make a quick trip to the bathroom to freshen up and change out of her work attire. As she walked back towards her door, she paused, looking at all the papers and sighed.

Not that she would expect him to see her flat, but on the off chance Malfoy walked her home, it would be rude to not invite him in for a cup of tea, if she wasn’t ready to hex him before that, and this was not how she would want to present her home. She took a moment to clear the piles, so she wouldn’t have to hesitate, if that was the natural progression of things, which in itself was the most ludicrous of thoughts. Once she finished, she popped back downstairs to find him sitting casually on her stoop, fiddling with what looked like a small transistor radio.

Interesting. Yet another thing she’d have to ask him about.

He stood as he heard the door open and tucked the item into his pocket. He raised his eyebrows at her changed attire.

She shrugged. “When I’m not at work, I’m almost always in jeans, or at least something comfortable.”

“Not a problem for me,” he replied. “Where are we off to?”

“What are you in the mood for?”

He seemed bemused by her question. “Granger, I’ll eat anything, but seeing as how this is your neighbourhood, it really should be your call. You know what’s good here.”

She nodded and made up her mind, leading him to a curry house that wasn’t far.

Malfoy had no way of knowing, but this was one of the subtle ways she liked to test the people she knew, sorting them into those who enjoyed spice and those who preferred things bland, and deciding whether it was a marker for deeper personality traits.

In her experience, it seemed to say something about the type of person you were. For example, Luna, for all her harebrained ideas, wasn’t phased by the hottest of dishes, while, in contrast, Ron didn’t eat much Indian at all, other than breads and sweets, claiming his system was too sensitive for such “exotic” tastes. On the one hand, Hermione had seen Luna’s daring nature come blazing through at times, particularly when those she cared about were threatened. On the other, while Ron, bless him, was plenty brave and could have a temper, he was also maddeningly predictable.

Perhaps it wasn’t fair to bring Malfoy here, but the food was really was tasty, and he could be another data point for her covert study. And although Hermione was currently playing it easy with her job at the Ministry, she adored spicy food.

The host smiled at the pair and then promptly led them to one of those circular booths where no matter where you sat, you ended up next to your dining companion. While it would have been nice if they were dating, it was a little awkward for the two not-quite friends. Still, they each slid into opposite ends of the booth, taking up spots where they could talk easily, but not so close as to breach any sort of decorum between them. Hermione made note that Malfoy seemed perfectly at ease, with no traces of the awkwardness she would have seen from almost any of her other friends when out in the Muggle world. It really was a wonder.

Hermione knew what she liked, but it surprised her that dining partner only gave a cursory glance to the menu and didn’t even pick it up.

“Do you like Indian?” she asked hesitantly, wondering if she should have suggested something safer for someone whose dining preferences she didn’t really know.

“Do I like Indian?” he repeated with a smirk on his face. “While I was travelling, I spent nearly two months in India, a few weeks in Pakistan, and also time across Southeast Asia. Let’s just say I have a great appreciation for all types of what one would collectively, but perhaps mistakenly, call ‘Indian’ and I haven’t yet met a curry I didn’t like.”

Hermione gulped. He had been places she had only dreamed of seeing, and she could only imagine the food he’d tried along the way. Now she was more worried about whether the restaurant would live up to his undoubtedly exacting standards.

“That sounds amazing. I knew you had travelled, but I guess I didn’t realise the extent of your itinerary. What took you there?”

He sat back, drumming his fingers on the table. She wondered if it was just nervous energy or if he was pondering how to answer her question. It surprised her that he’d even consider telling her, but that seemed to be what they were edging towards, something more than a simple détente.

“Now, that is a bit of a tale, Granger, and to be honest, you’re responsible for some of it. I’m happy to share, but are you sure you want to hear it?” He raised an eyebrow, waiting to see what her response would be.

She nodded, more than curious for the peek inside his head, entirely unsure how she might feature in such a tale. Besides, this was Malfoy talking, which was so unusual. It hadn’t been that long ago that Pansy had pressed her, and she had admitted to herself that she was interested in hearing more about what he had to say.

The server appeared to take their order, interrupting the flow of their conversation, and Hermione internally cursed for the timing of the intrusion, sure that the moment had been lost.

Malfoy leaned towards her with a mischievous look in his eye. “Do you trust me to order for us?”

She waved her hand, giving him the go ahead, curious to see what he would choose, given his self-described prowess. He ordered several dishes for them to share, one of which she hadn’t even heard of, and when the server asked him what level of spiciness, she nodded her assent once again for him to decide, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling when the level of heat was to her liking. She’d had no way of knowing that this particular blond Brit, whom she would have assumed had a rather delicate palate, could hold his own, and from the smug look on his face, he knew that he’d surprised her.

“Was that last dish even on the menu?” she wondered after their server had stepped away.

“No, you need to be in the know for that.” He grinned before settling back in the booth. “Now, where was I? After my probation ended, you already know that Blaise and I headed out to travel. I, for one, was more than ready for a change of scenery.”

She was taken aback by how easily he spoke about that time period in their lives. But then again, between them, would it even make sense to try to hide? They both knew the generalities of the other’s experience, at least during the war and the following year at school. Although it was what had happened after their Eighth Year that interested Hermione, wanting to understand what had brought about such a complete change in the wizard who sat next to her.

He continued. “We landed in Italy for a while before traipsing around the Wizarding hotspots in Southern Europe: Monaco, San Marino, Dubrovnik.” He waved his hand dismissively, as if it was every day that one got to hang out in Croatia.

She knew the broad strokes from their talk in the coffee shop. Plus, Blaise had bragged about who and what he had done, as he was often prone to do. In her mind, she had always pictured Malfoy right next to him during those exploits, even after Blaise returned to England, claiming that he’d parted company with Malfoy some time before and did not know where his friend was at this point. It had been a shock to Theo, who had grown increasingly concerned with Malfoy’s continued absence.

“As much as it was good to get away, I quickly tired of the party boy life.”

She wasn’t sure what look she had on her face, but he reacted to it with a chuckle.

“I know. Imagine that. It surprised me, too. But, as you know, we’d been through a lot, some more than others.” His expression faded, and she saw him glance down at her arm before looking off in the distance. “It didn’t sit right with me to be enjoying myself. After all, it wasn’t like I really deserved it.”

She frowned, unused to hearing such self-deprecation, particularly from someone who had so often bragged about his wealth and status in their youth. This was more like the boy she had known in Eighth Year, who largely kept to himself and didn’t engage. She opened her mouth to object. They’d already talked about this. He certainly wasn’t responsible for what had happened to her, but Malfoy held his hand up and stopped her.

“Whatever you’re going to say, save it. I’m not saying I didn’t deserve to enjoy my life, but there’s a difference between living, and experiencing the excesses that we were. I’m sure that sounds odd coming from me, but it was too much. I remember sitting one night at a club and realising that all around me were people who had money and privilege and seemingly not a care in the world. But as I looked around, all I could see were the same type of people who believed the same things that I had been raised with. That money was power. That the right blood status conferred privilege. That one’s worth could be determined, at least in part, based on the length and cleanliness of one’s bloodline.”

He winced as he finished, perhaps not wanting to say those words and admit how deeply he had put stock in them at one time. He stopped to take a bite of one of the samosas that the server had dropped off at their table.

She exhaled before taking one for herself. “And you don’t believe that anymore.”

He gave her a significant look, as if the fact that he was sitting with her in a Muggle restaurant made that more than clear. She wasn’t questioning it. He was already so different from the boy she’d spent the first six years of school with. She busied herself with her food, hoping he’d continue.

“We all have our vices. We all have things we chase. For Blaise, back then, he was always searching for the next party, the next thrill, the next high. Maybe in some ways, he still is.” He took another bite. “But, I woke up one morning, and I decided I was wasting my time. That partying with the Durmstrang/Beauxbatons set was getting old fast, and I needed something different.”

“What did you do?” Hermione asked in a low voice, as if someone was telling her their secrets. She supposed in a way, Malfoy was, which made it even more surprising that he was sharing them with her.

“I packed what I thought I might need in a rucksack and left Blaise a note before I made my way to the Muggle train station.”

“How did you-”

He anticipated her question. “-pay for things? I always had a bit of Muggle money on me. Down there, clubbing often bled between the two worlds, but I felt I needed to do something radically different, so I bought a ticket on the first train leaving.”

Hermione was spellbound, imagining what that must have been like for him, setting foot into a world that was largely unknown.

“Where was it heading?”

“Istanbul.” He sighed. “I was nervous, as you can imagine, stepping off the train in such an unfamiliar place, but do you know the one thing that I thought in that moment?”

She shook her head.

“How if you, as an eleven-year-old girl, could figure out how to navigate a whole new world, then I should be capable of doing it too.”

“Scotland is not a whole different world,” she scoffed, taken aback to be compared in such a way. He was making more of her transition than deserved.

“No, but _our_ world was. And yet, you jumped in with both feet and never looked back. As much as I teased you back then, there was some part of me that was impressed. If the situations were reversed, I don’t think I could have done the same.”

Now that made some sense to Hermione. She remembered how she had prepared by reading as much as she could about the world of magic before heading to Hogwarts, about how she had tried so hard to fit in, to excel, to ensure no one questioned her right to be there, which was why it pained so much when they did, when others questioned her credentials as a witch based on something out of her control, as if her knowledge and mastery of magic weren’t enough. For Malfoy, of all people, to recognise that — and that he might have even so many years ago — seemed significant.

“And that’s why you did it? That’s why you went you off on your own?” 

He paused, looking thoughtful. “I didn’t leave in an attempt to show you up, if that’s what you’re thinking. I meant it as a compliment. I now have a much greater appreciation for what it takes for someone to step into the unknown, and particularly for what it means for a Muggle-born to make that change.”

The word rolled off his tongue as if he had always used it, instead of the slur that he had spat at her in their youth. Hermione was taken aback by it all, the weight of his words, how earnest he seemed. How was it that she got to be privy to such a significant change in thinking? 

“Did I do it to prove that I could make my own way? Maybe a little. But in all honesty, my head was so screwed up back then. I was still trying to figure out who I was and what it all had meant.” He sighed. “You can imagine I landed in Istanbul and suddenly had to find my way around. No wand. No elves. I had to figure out where to stay, where to eat, how to accomplish the simplest of tasks. It was overwhelming. There were so many people, so many sounds and smells. It was like nothing I had ever encountered. I had to suppress the urge to run back to Blaise with my tail between my legs, or better yet, head home. It would have been easy; my mother would have welcomed me with open arms.”

She sat listening to him talk, feeling the weight of what that must have been like. “But you didn’t do either of those things.”

“No. I think by that point, I felt I had to prove to myself that I could manage away from everyone and everything. Maybe it was my penance, to live away from the Wizarding world for a bit. That made much more sense to me than the farce of a sentence they had given me.”

Hermione frowned at his words. She started to object, but he beat her to it.

“I get it. But, I also am the one who gets to decide how I feel about things. It was important for me to have this experience. I needed to be put in my place, to have to figure things out for myself. I needed to have to ask for help, and to be taken advantage of. Istanbul was an eye-opener in many ways, but it made Tbilisi easier. And Tashkent. And every other step along the way. Each time I found my way, each time I had to navigate through the Muggle world, I realised that the scorn and disdain I had been raised with had been misplaced. Muggles are neither worse nor better than magical folk. We’re all part of the same human race. Some of us, just have a bit extra. But, then again, as you know, Muggles have plenty of magic of their own that we haven’t yet learned to replicate.”

He stopped to take a sip of his water. Hermione was astounded. She sat there, unsure what to think about all he had just told her. No wonder he seemed so different. His poles had completely realigned. And what was more, he himself had made them change through the work that he had done, no longer willing to accept the limited world view he had been raised with.

“Malfoy, wow.”

“Draco,” he said pointedly.

Had they now reached the point where they were on a first name basis? She supposed they were, if nothing else, by the virtue of the personal nature of what he’d just shared with her.

“I’m stunned, Draco,” she said, trying out his given name and finding it rather easy to say. “And I want to hear more about all the places you went.”

Their food arrived, and both paused to fill their plates.

“I have to say, it’s not bad, Granger.” Draco said after tasting one of the dishes.

“It’s Hermione,” she reminded, although he knew full well. If she’d be calling him Draco, he should use her given name, as well.

He laughed, shaking his head. “Not a chance. You have to realise Granger’s almost a term of endearment at this point.”

She felt her cheeks warm at his statement. She knew his housemates called her that — too set in their ways at this point — but him calling it a term of endearment seemed different. She wondered if he’d noticed her sudden blush, or if he had chalked it up to the spicy food. She reached for a sip from her glass to cool herself down.

They spent the rest of the meal with Hermione asking about where he had travelled, what he had seen and done. There wasn’t nearly enough time to cover everything. Draco shared some details, while promising to tell her more another time.

Did that mean they might share another meal? Hermione found she wasn’t upset with the prospect. Besides being captivated by his transformation, he was an excellent conversationalist, and seemed surprisingly in tune with her. He had given the things he had talked about a lot of thought, and yet, she wondered if he had shared much of his story with anyone else. Who would have listened to him? Better yet, who would have believed it?

Eventually, they’d finished eating and the evidence of their meal lay scattered about. Draco pushed his plate away from him.

“Those are the basics. And now, you’re privy to far more than anyone else knows about my time away.”

Anyone? That confirmed what she’d wondered. She wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t shared the details with his friends, but then again, much like her friends, everyone lived their lives in the Wizarding world and gave little thought to the larger world around them. While she had grown close with both Pansy and Theo, she knew they tolerated her Muggle side, rather than embraced it.

Even Harry and Ron, as much as they accepted she was a Muggle-born, to them, she was a Muggle-born witch. The two rarely spared a thought for the society that was still so important to her, even Harry. While he had been raised around Muggles and was comfortable in the Muggle world, he largely stayed away from it, instead living in the world of his chosen family. So, it was with some surprise that Hermione was finding this common ground — their shared knowledge of the Muggle world — with Draco Malfoy, of all people. 

Having listened to his story, she had so many questions. She wanted to know more about what he had seen, what he had experienced, what it was like for him, but there was one question that really stood out to her.

“And all that time, you travelled like a Muggle?”

He chuckled again. For someone who always seemed so serious when she saw him at the Leaky, he was oddly at ease with her. She couldn’t think of when she’d seen Draco laugh before. Sneer, yes, but laugh, genuinely laugh? Between the dance and here, he had been amused several times already. It made her stomach feel funny, to see this side of him, to know that he was comfortable enough around her to share it.

“For the most part. It was a choice I made. I had been mollycoddled for so long. My life had been so carefully curated, I felt like I needed to see for myself, to learn. Sure, there were times that I made use of magic. Translation charms were essential in many places. Bedbugs are not fun, let me tell you, far more persistent than doxies. But, I wanted to see the world as it really was, and I wanted to see if I could make it in a world where being Draco Malfoy meant nothing to anyone, least of all, me.”

Hermione couldn’t believe what she had heard. His story seemed more fantastical than she could imagine. Draco Malfoy living in a flat in Muggle London was one thing, but for someone who had grown up openly disdainful of Muggles and whose experience in the Muggle world had been limited at best to spend over a year travelling around? It was hard to wrap her head around.

He leaned forward expectantly. “Say something. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I- I don’t know what to say. I’m a bit in shock, I guess. And jealous of the places you’ve been. Travelling is something I want to do, but I haven’t had the time.”

“I’ve rendered Hermione Granger speechless. Someone write this down!” he joked.

She reached out a hand to swat at him, and he caught it. Blasted Seekers’ reflexes.

But what was more surprising was he didn’t immediately let go of her hand.

“Granger…”

The moment was heavy between them. Hermione’s mind drifted ahead, glad she had cleaned her flat, given having Draco come up for tea was looking more likely.

“Fuck!” He exclaimed and then immediately apologised. “I didn’t realise how late it was. I’ve got to run.”

He pulled his billfold out of his pocket and threw some Pound notes on the table, more than enough to cover their meal. Hermione began to protest, but he waved it off, muttering all the while about obligations. He started to lean into her, but in the last second she turned towards him with a question on her face wondering what he was doing, and as such, the kiss he was aiming at her cheek landed squarely on her lips.

Both their eyes widened before they pulled away from each other.

Draco raked his hands through his hair and shook his head, his eyes still wide. “Fuck. I’m so sorry,” he said, standing abruptly and walking out of the restaurant without a backwards glance.

Hermione rubbed her face to her hands. Of all the awkward endings. Had Draco Malfoy just kissed her by mistake? She definitely hadn’t seen that coming, and by his reaction, nor had he.

Yet, as the server brought the check so she could settle their tab, all she could think was that she wouldn’t wholly mind if he tried that again.


	8. A Second Excursus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers: This chapter contains a mention of a non-graphic description of an unspecified assault on a third party and an attack after the line break. The fic tags have been updated to reflect this. If you wish to skip, a brief summary of the events can be found in the ending Author's Note.

Of all the bad ideas that had ever flitted across his mind, Draco wasn’t sure how that one had come to fruition.

It hadn’t even been a fully formed idea. It was more like a thread that he had picked at until it started to come unravelled — or he had started to come unravelled. Yes, that was it. Because somehow he’d kissed Hermione Granger, and he still wasn’t quite sure how that had come to be.

Here he had leaned in reflexively to peck her on the cheek, much like he would Pansy. It was an acknowledgement, nothing more, but she’d suddenly turned and they’d ended up touching in a way that he never thought would be possible.

Even more surprisingly, while their kiss — if you could even call it that — had been quite brief, he thought she might have kissed him back for a moment, before the two of them pulled apart with wide eyes, and he’d rushed out of the shop.

Smooth, that. Real smooth.

He wasn’t even sure how he came to be sitting in a restaurant with her, having shared both a meal and such intimate parts of his story. He knew the mechanics, but that differed from understanding the motive or the meaning.

He was like that around her, constantly warring with himself, trying to portray a calm and collected veneer, while his insides were in turmoil. He had been since bumping into her that day in the bookshop. Yet over dinner, his words had still bubbled up and over, escaping as he tried to show her who he was and how he was different from the boy she had known. On reflection, the loss of his composure was unsettling to say the least.

Draco might not know all the moving parts that had brought him to that point, but he was clear on how it had started — with friends that had wormed themselves inside his life and didn’t know when to leave well enough alone.

As so many bad ideas started, he’d made the mistake of agreeing to pop by Theo’s, given he had left the Leaky so early and abruptly (Theo’s words) the previous Friday, but when he’d stepped through the Floo, he found he had walked into a full-on intervention. Blaise, Theo, and Pansy seemed to be waiting for him; Pansy and Theo both looked excited, while Blaise appeared a bit put out.

“Sit, sit.” Theo waved him towards an empty chair. “So kind of you to join us, Draco.”

Theo handed Draco a drink, as was de rigueur at Nott Manor.

Draco took a sip of the Firewhiskey. It was an acceptable choice, but he would limit his own consumption, as he preferred to keep his own head clear through the exercise of moderation. He had responsibilities that he didn’t care to shirk under the haze of alcohol. He needed a clear head and quick reflexes, and a Sober Up potion didn’t work as well as not over-indulging in the first place.

He looked around at his friends, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but then decided he preferred to not waste precious time.

“What the deal, Nott?” he asked after Theo finished topping off everyone’s glass and took his own seat again.

“What? Do we need an excuse to get together? You so rarely grace us with your presence these days.”

He clenched his jaw reflexively but loosened it right away. He might as well have broadcasted his unease to his fellow snakes. Instead, he dropped into the nonchalance that came so easily.

“What can I say? I’m a busy man, which is more than I can say about the lot of you.”

Pansy tucked her legs under her and tilted her head in a way that spoke clearly of the manipulation that was surely coming.

“Busy with what exactly, Draco? Hanging out with your new Muggle friends?”

Theo sniggered, but Blaise chuckled openly.

“You’re keeping up appearances, although only minimally,” Pansy continued. “My mother reports that your mother keeps making excuses for you.”

Draco frowned. “Your mother needs to keep her mouth shut.”

Pansy didn’t react to the rebuff. “I’m just the messenger. But, the fact remains that you got back to England, bought a flat in a _Muggle_ building, of all places; and you’re never around.”

“I don’t see why it’s anyone’s business where I live. You all seem to get through the Floo just fine.”

“When we have an invitation…” Theo chimed in.

“You’re wasting your time on him. He’s a lost cause.”

Draco bristled and turned to face Blaise. “What? Because I don’t have a different witch in my bed every night?”

Things still remained cool between the two of them. Draco suspected Blaise felt slighted that Draco had left the way he had. But what was the alternative? He had stayed as long as he could, partied as much as he had been able. It occurred to Draco that all of his friends had changed while he was gone, but then again, so had he, which was why he hadn’t been eager to slip back into old patterns when he returned home. 

“Easy, now. We’re all friends here.”

That was Theo again, he was always trying to keep the peace. But not everything needed to be fixed, and not everything needed to be glossed over. Just like Friday nights at the Leaky. To him it seemed like a thin veneer of camaraderie over the residual pain and anger from the past that still lingered. Or maybe that was all directed towards him.

Theo seemed to get along with nearly everyone. Blaise could flit in and out, as his social calendar allowed. And even Pansy was now close friends with Hermione sodding Granger — if that wasn’t the biggest surprise, but then again, the roots of that had been laid during their Eighth Year, when he was still under probation and rather fucked in the head.

Draco took a deep breath and a swig of his drink.

These were his friends. For better or worse, they had stuck by him through everything. Blaise didn’t deserve his snark. But Draco knew how much his experiences had changed him, and it seemed his friends didn’t know what to do with him, preferring the Draco they’d known to the one they now had.

“Sorry, Blaise.” He mumbled under his breath. Offering the apology was in itself a concession, but he deemed it a necessary one. While he wasn’t around as much as they liked, they were still all he had, given he didn’t have those “Muggle friends” as Pansy had put it.

Not that he would have had a problem with it. His time among them had put to rest all the notions of Wizarding superiority. Instead, he was a man of patterns and acquaintances. The people who smiled at him at the coffee shop and the bookstore were the same as the people who he sat across from at the Leaky. Yet, he held them all at arm’s length, unable or unwilling to go deeper. He had never attempted to befriend a Muggle because he’d never be able to be open or honest with them about who he was.

Similarly, those in the magical world either tried to ingratiate themselves because of his vaults, tolerated him because of the entreaties of the people sitting in this room, or openly scorned him, mainly but not entirely, due to the sins of his father. Any of them might think they knew who Draco Malfoy was, but they didn’t. No one truly knew his depths. While it was a lonely life, it was one of his choosing.

At last, he had found something to do that was useful, that made him feel he wasn’t just taking up space. That let him atone for all the words he’d said, for all the things he had done — and not done. None of them would understand.

While he could appreciate Muggle ingenuity, what he had divined from his time among them was something deeper. Magic didn’t need to be separated from Muggles completely. It could be used responsibly in a way that helped those in need, rather than hurt indiscriminately. He knew his efforts were making a difference on the streets of London. After all, isn’t that what the news reports had said? That London was safer than it had been in ages, thanks to the mystery crime-fighter.

“Speaking of Muggles…” Theo said in a voice much louder than needed, drawing Draco’s attention back to the room. “Pansy and I had lunch with everyone’s favourite Gryffindor recently.”

Draco grumbled, wondering where this was going. “She’s a witch, Theo.”

Theo flipped his hand and waved him off. “Of course, Hermione’s a witch, Draco. I’m not the one who was so intent on calling her otherwise in our misguided youth. Although, ten points to you for immediately knowing who I was referring to.” He raised an eyebrow, emphasising his words.

Draco’s frown deepened. He had played right into Theo’s hand; he couldn’t deny it now. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“And?”

It wouldn’t do to seem invested in what Theo had to say, but Draco was. He wanted to know what had been said, if his name had come up. He could only hope that Theo and Pansy would give him some scraps of what he wanted, since he would not ask. That would only invite further unwanted scrutiny.

Too many of his thoughts had been disrupted by his renewed acquaintance with Granger, and yet, he couldn’t help but wonder whether it was all for naught. But he knew he wanted to see her again. There was more he wanted to know about her, and in return, more that he wanted her to know about him and how he had changed. If their chance meeting in Muggle London had whetted his appetite, seeing her at the charity event and dancing with her had only made him more hungry. Their dance. Their talk. The way she had so easily melted into his side after escaping from Cormac. He almost could have pictured they were friends. Almost.

But then again, he was not a bold man, nor did his lifestyle allow for frivolities. He preferred things that were sure bets; and he preferred the anonymity of the shadows to the certainty of open rejection.

And so, he had spent his last visit at the Leaky watching her, as he quietly sipped his drink, ignored by those at the table. He saw how easily she fit in, how her entire face lit up as she laughed, how she seemed to be more comfortable with his friends than even he was at this point.

She was good; she was kind. She was many things that he would never be. Instead of sticking around until someone questioned his internal reverie, he’d slipped into the night while Hermione was away from the table. It was easier to embrace the dark. It was natural to him, that which gave him purpose and allowed him the chance to redeem his soul bit by bit, as he made amends for who he was.

“And nothing. Were you expecting something? We were just catching up.”

Blaise sighed heavily. “Just spit it out, Theo. Put the boy out of his misery.”

Pansy cut her eyes towards Blaise in warning and then turned to look directly at Draco.

“ _Anyway_ , I think if _someone_ were interested in, say, a certain Gryffindor, it’s possible that such interest might be reciprocated.”

“What are we? Twelve?” Blaise groaned. “Are we going to play Truth or Dare next?”

“Emotionally? Fifteen, at best. That was a good year; maybe the last of them,” Theo answered. “Besides, all of us are not as _liberated_ as you are, Blaise.”

Pansy snickered. “You mean fast and loose.”

It was Blaise’s turn to scowl.

Theo shrugged. “Semantics. In any event, we all know that our boy here wouldn’t be half as tense if he were getting some on a regular basis. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before now. It’s clear as day: the drama, the angst, the continual brooding.”

“You’re all idiots.” Draco said, while neither confirming nor denying Theo’s statement,

“Perhaps, but you’re the desperate one.” Theo grinned.

Draco didn’t respond. His mind was already processing the information he’d been given. If he could trust Theo’s word, and he always had, even with his propensity to gossip, maybe it was the sign he needed that he wasn’t alone in his fascination and his interest might be shared in kind. That in itself was a bit terrifying. However, they were adults now, and things were different. A warmth sprung up in his chest that he hadn’t felt in some time. He checked his watch and downed his drink before standing to leave.

“Well, I’m off.”

“Seriously?” Theo exclaimed. “You just got here.”

He nodded. “And now, I’ve got things to do.”

“Or someone.” Pansy added, a smile in her voice.

His friends were incorrigible, but in that moment, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

* * *

Distraction was a bad thing in his line of work. It was why his solitary existence made so much sense. He ate, slept and roamed the streets of London, unless he was attempting to satisfy his mother’s requests for company, or Theo’s pressure for him to occasionally show his face. It worked for him.

Yet now, there was a new variable that he found himself trying to make sense of, one with bushy hair and warm brown eyes. His days had already changed, a side effect of introducing a variable into a static equation. Instead of watching people in the park, he found himself sipping his coffee and trying to figure out when he might drop in on Granger or where he could suggest they meet up. Instead of sleeping in on Saturdays, Draco woke early to meet her at a museum or indulge in Muggle cinema. He had seen more of Muggle London in the daytime in the past several weeks than he had in all the months before. His world was shifting — had shifted. Instead of craving the dark of night, he was debating what flowers would be appropriate or if she’d been to a particular restaurant.

She’d embedded herself under his skin, for sure. And while it was not an unwelcome distraction, the fact remained that she had complicated things. He tried to keep his interactions with her to the afternoon or evening, so his nights would be free for patrolling, but even then things had been pinched occasionally, as he lingered in her presence, not quite ready to go.

He hadn’t abandoned his work, however. The city still needed him. More than that, he still needed the city. He needed to feel like he was making a difference, like he was helping. And perhaps it helped him feel like he was worthy of her presence, that even though he couldn’t tell her about it, he was a better man.

But that was the rub, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as if he could have a proper relationship with her. At some point, she’d wonder why he never stayed late or always had to dash off. Instead, he was happy to enjoy her company as long as she’d let him, until she inevitably tired of his excuses and moved on.

For now, it was a respite, a bit of sunshine, in his otherwise stolid life; and while he was content to be in her company, he wouldn’t push for more.

He heard the sound of a woman’s scream nearby and hastened his pace. If there was one thing he could not abide, it was someone wielding their power against a person who couldn’t defend themselves. He had been forced to attend a Death Eater rave once, and it was so unbalanced and horrific, he simply could not tolerate it.

It was one of his driving forces, why he kept watch on the streets night after night, trying to ensure that those who needed a helping hand had one, and those that took advantage were repaid in kind. The sound of the scream caused a visceral reaction in him, making him want to lash out. It was probably a side-effect of having been utterly powerless as a child, unable to protect those who needed protecting, yet compelled to be present for the vile deeds of Lucius and his cronies. After the rave, he hadn’t been able to look his mother in the eyes for a week, knowing what her husband was capable of, and he never wanted to feel that powerless again.

He wasn’t far. He could hear the signs of a struggle and gripped his wand under his cloak, preparing for the inevitable confrontation.

He looked down a dark alley and saw a woman struggling against a man who was holding her, pinning her against the wall as she struggled to escape. She was quiet now, his hand was covering her mouth. Instead of getting his bearings and making a plan, he reacted instinctively. He hastily pulled up the hood of his cloak and barrelled into the alley to help her.

In just a moment, he’d covered half the distance and was gripping his wand, ready to pull it from his pocket and cast a Bombarda at the assailant when he heard a voice directly behind him. Its timbre was calm and collected.

“Now here’s our hero. Somehow, I knew you’d come.”

There was a third person in the alley who must have lain in wait. All the adrenaline fled from his body, replaced by something that felt more like dread mixed with fear, as he wondered what lay in store. The feeling reminded him of being at court with Voldemort, where literally anything might happen.

He quickly took stock of the situation, figuring he still had the upper hand. These people didn’t know who he was or what he could do. But for the cloak, he could have been someone who had just stumbled upon the scene, drawn in by the ruckus.

However, when he saw the man who was holding the woman had stilled and turned to watch instead, his stomach sunk with the realisation _he_ had been their target all along.

Draco whipped around, turning to face the man who had got the jump on him, a product of his lack of focus and haste. He mentally chastised himself, bracing for what was to come.

A fight? An interrogation?

Instead, he felt a sudden sharp pain in his abdomen and doubled over. His hands gripped his stomach, and they felt warm and wet.

He heard two sets of footsteps run off and sirens sounding in the distance, while a smaller pair of shoes appeared in his peripheral vision

“Are you okay?” a woman’s voice asked, shakily. She placed her hand on his shoulder. “You scared them off. Thank you. But, you’re hurt.”

She reached a hand towards his face and he pulled back, now on his knees. He didn’t want her to see his face. He was in no shape to Obliviate anyone.

“I’ll go get help.”

She moved towards the entry of the alleyway and began yelling for assistance and he was alone, feeling the blood continue to seep through his fingers. He had meant his actions to help her, and perhaps in a way, he had, given the assailants had moved off; but then again, here she was, trying to assist him instead.

If he waited for help from the Muggles, his identity would become known, and word would certainly make its way to the Ministry. Even if he cast a quick glamour, but his name remained a secret, his wand alone would raise suspicion. Without it, he’d be unable to perform the spells needed to confund anyone to get out of this mess.

On the other hand, if he somehow made it to St. Mungo’s, they could treat him, but then what would it say for the barely reformed Malfoy heir to have sustained such an injury. There would be questions he wouldn’t want to answer, followed by even more looks and whispers, and his mother’s disappointed face, as her family’s social standing hit rock-bottom once again.

The sirens were getting closer. He staggered to his feet. There was really only one option.

He reached for his wand with one hand while bracing his abdomen with the other and mustered all the deliberation he could while visualising where he wanted to land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: While out on patrol, Draco gets ambushed, distracted by thoughts of Hermione. He is attacked by an unknown assailant and ends up with a knife wound in his stomach. When no one is around, he gathers himself and is able to Apparate away.


	9. In which Hermione forgets to maintain constant vigilance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is a really long chapter. My apologies - there wasn’t a good place to split it. It also wanted to fight with me. (I hope I won.)
> 
> 2\. It's important to remember that Hermione and Draco's POVs don't always flow directly from one to the next. It may make more sense if you reread Hermione's last chapter, bc the events at the end of the Excursus haven't happened yet. (But we'll get there momentarily.)
> 
> 3\. Content note: this chapter features a non-violent act of assault, non-graphic references to past torture (Bellatrix to Hermione) and disassociation based on said trauma. If any of these are triggers for you, please see the AN at the end of the chapter.

Getting to know Draco had been surprisingly easy.

True, he had an odd formality to him, probably a product of his upbringing, but spending time with him in the Muggle world was a vastly different experience than she ever could have imagined. It was as if he was a completely distinct person from the prickly prat he’d been at school.

He’d told her about his transformation and the reasons for his change; yet while it made sense, she still had trouble wrapping her head around it all.

Even more concerningly, she _liked_ this new Draco, the one who sent her flowers and suggested adventures for them in the Muggle world. The adjustment had been quite a shock to her system, like getting to know someone for the first time, as if all of their earlier interactions had never happened. As if their fraught past could be erased by having taken the time to get to know who each really was, instead of the gross (and incorrect) caricatures they had previously relied on.

Of course, that wasn’t entirely true. Draco had been a right shit to her for far too many years. Hermione knew that, and yet at some level, her experience of him inside the Wizarding world and outside was so completely different that it excited her to learn more about this newer version who seemed to have learned humility and contrition, and the innate worth of all people. It was such a contrast that she couldn’t quite make sense of the transition in their relationship. Draco had always skirted around the outside of the group of Hogwarts alums, and he hadn’t been a part of her life before. However, now that he was, to her surprise, she found she wasn’t all that troubled by it.

The day after his sudden departure from dinner, he’d sent flowers to her office the very next day, which had made Cormac nearly apoplectic.

“What… Are you seeing someone?”

He looked decidedly unhappy with the thought, but Hermione couldn’t be bothered. In fact, she was happy to have an excuse to make clear once and for all that she had absolutely no interest in him. (In fact, had she known he would react this way to her receiving flowers, she would have sent herself some long ago.) That being said, she plucked the card from the arrangement and tucked it away until she could read it on her own.

The message was brief and to the point, with just enough of a hint that she may not be the only one who found herself in unexpected territory.

_Apologies for having to dash off from a lovely evening._

_DM_

Her first instinct had been to dissect the gesture six ways from Sunday, trying to determine if the bouquet held any hidden meaning and if so, what it might be. Were they simple apology flowers, or were the selections meaningful? She wondered if his choice of flora might provide some context for their almost kiss, or perhaps she was making far more of it all than she should.

True to form, she’d headed to the Ministry’s library to search for answers to her questions. She knew pureblood wizards attached far more meaning to the language of flowers than she had ever cared to learn. She knew the basics, but she’d never had occasion to take a deeper dive into floral lore; moreover, she didn’t even recognise some of the blossoms in the arrangement.

She found a book that gave her the details she sought. Even so, she’d needed help from the librarian to identify some of them. Leave it to Draco to send a bouquet as enigmatic as he was.

The arrangement was quite striking, mainly in shades of purple and blue, which may have been a message in and of itself. Purple was the colour of magic and mystery, but also spoke to the totality of someone, an acknowledgement of their past and present, while blue spoke to calmness, trust and intelligence.

The blue salvia she knew meant “I think of you,” which wasn’t an untoward sentiment, and she could admit to sharing it at this point. Bluebells spoke of humility and clematis to strength of thought. There was larkspur for lightness, but the bittersweet had puzzled her completely — it looked so familiar, but it wasn’t until the librarian pointed out that it was in the nightshade family did she place it. The book she’d looked in gave it several meanings: truth and honesty, but also platonic love, which she doubted he meant at this early stage in their acquaintance.

The orange wallflowers were an interesting inclusion, providing the bouquet with a pop of colour. In the end, she wasn’t sure he’d included them for their meaning, fidelity, or their name, as a nod back to their Eighth Year, as he had done on the dance floor.

Of course, there was no way for her to be sure that the selection had been purposeful, but it excited her to think that perhaps he had, that he had spent the time to make deliberate choices on something just for her.

When the next Friday rolled around, she’d taken extra care with her outfit, just in case he was at the Leaky. She’d resolved to sit next to him and talk and perhaps pull at what she thought might be mutual threads of connection.

She’d sat squirming in her seat, her attention half on the conversation and half on the door, but he’d never showed. That night, she went home feeling a little disappointed that she might have been pinning her hopes on seeing him when he hadn’t done the same.

Late Saturday morning, a rather temperamental owl had arrived at her window seeking entrance. She opened the proffered note to find it was from Draco, asking whether she was free for coffee that afternoon back at the same shop near where they’d initially met. While it gave her another chance to connect with him, she couldn’t help but notice that it was enough of a low stakes invitation that she could decline without it seeming odd.

This wasn’t a date. It was a chance to continue their conversation. Though, sitting across from him, she couldn’t help but feel that they were poised on a ledge and could fall either way, depending on what each chose to do.

It was all so confusing, but even then Hermione knew she enjoyed his company, and enjoyed the camaraderie she’d found in such an unlikely person.

At one point, after they’d each drained their cups, Draco tilted his head and looked at her, as if deciding something for himself.

“Do you fancy a walk?”

He led her across the street to where there was one of those rare patches of green in the midst of the city. It wasn’t Hyde Park, but it was more than adequate for an afternoon meander.

He was quieter today than he had been at dinner, but the breadth and depth of their conversation that evening had been so unexpected she didn’t mind. Today, it seemed, he had questions for Hermione, asking about her work, her interests, and even her parents.

She pulled him over to a bench and sat as she explained her relationship with them, what the Grangers had been through, the time it had taken them to rebuild their trust in her, in the wake of all that had happened.

“That’s why I work in Misuse of Muggle Artifacts,” she’d explained. “When I first returned their memories, when they first returned home, _they_ were my priority, not setting the world on fire or even doing the work to fix it.”

She gave a small laugh. “To be honest, I think I’d done enough of that already. It’s been good to step back for a bit and just be. Let someone else do the heavy lifting for a change.”

Draco stared at her with a slack jaw.

“Fuck, Granger.” He’d sat, unsure what to say or do. Hermione was used to such reactions when she mentioned what she’d done, although few people knew about everything she had been through. It wasn’t something she was proud of, after all, even though if she had to, she’d do it again to keep her parents safe. Of anyone, she figured Draco already knew how necessary her drastic measures had been. Wisely, he chose not to elaborate. They both were aware of how different the outcome could have been.

“But, things are good now? Your parents are good? With you?”

Hermione nodded, explaining how she still made a point to spend time with them regularly, and how the Muggle world was a bit of a respite for her with its lack of expectations and anonymity.

She figured Draco could relate to that.

It had been a lovely afternoon, and as it drew to a close, she found herself wondering what might happen next. But she needn’t have worried. Draco seemed as interested as she was, his owl tapping at her window shortly after she returned home.

_Is it odd to wish that we’d had more time?_

She hadn’t been sure what to say in response. His words seemed to hint more, without directly saying it, leaving the reader to decipher his meaning. She wondered if he felt conflicted or just confused like she did, wishing she knew. But then, maybe the fact that he had sent a note at all was meaning enough. She sat there pondering the day, before eventually deciding to scribble back a quick note of her own.

_Not when the company and conversation were good._

Let him make of that what he wanted. At least she was affirmatively stating that she enjoyed spending time with him, because, much to her surprise, she did.

Since then, they’d seen each other a handful of times, all in the Muggle world. Everything had remained rather casual. The “kiss,” if one could call it that, had decidedly not been mentioned, nor had it happened again. Hermione could live with that, for now. The fact was, the more time she spent with Draco, the more she liked him. It was nice to have someone to hang around in Muggle London with, and they seemed to enjoy many of the same things. In fact, Hermione couldn’t remember a time that she’d spent so much time in London, just hanging out.

Even though Draco was comfortable in the Muggle world and seemed to know his way around the streets of London surprisingly well, there were plenty of things he had never done, which then gave Hermione an excuse to share with him all the places that she knew or enjoyed around the city. She found she rather enjoyed sharing this part of her life with him.

While Draco always seemed to have a plan, Hermione had also started a list of places for them to go, and that list had grown quite long. She knew it was aspirational, but Draco’s wide-eyed interest had served to reignite her love of her home city, and he seemed perfectly willing to indulge her whims.

A walk along Tower Bridge had led to a stop at the Church of Saint Dunstan. Hermione explained how even before she knew of the magical world she had been captivated by the gothic architecture of the bombed-out ruins that reminded them both of Hogwarts. Draco’s question about the church’s history had led them to a discussion on World War II, its parallels in the Wizarding world and a heated discussion on whether there was ever a time when wizards should intervene in Muggle affairs.

Another outing found Hermione introducing Draco to the hidden Neil’s Yard, almost a muggle version of Diagon Alley with its quaint and colourful shops and one of Hermione’s favourite dusty bookstores.

For his part, Draco dragged her to hole-in-the-wall eateries with cuisines she hardly knew existed. It was as if he spent his time in London making a map of obscure and out-of-the-way finds. Each time he had her try something new, he’d watch and wait to see her reaction before commenting further, and then nodding in approval as she rose to his implicit challenge; and each dish seemed to come with a story. Nepali Yomari came with a tale of the village he’d stayed in and the goat who had refused to share the mountain path with him. He had waxed poetically about the political climate and how he’d negotiated the intricate mashing of English, Russian and Georgian as she tried Khinkali, the most amazing Georgian dumplings.

Hermione couldn’t help but be drawn in by his travels, by the stories of him navigating an unfamiliar world largely without the use of magic, as well as the foreign places and unfamiliar customs and cuisines. However, Draco made it seem as if it was no big deal, and that any adversities he had experienced had only been what was due to him, anyway.

As the two of them continued to get to know each other through their outings, one thing that didn’t come up again was the kiss that wasn’t. As the weeks went by, Hermione was sure that it had been an accident. Draco hadn’t meant to do it; that was clear from his reaction, nor had he tried it again. 

Hermione figured it must have just been on instinct that he leaned in, and she had gone and spoiled it by turning when she had. She couldn’t think of another reason that things hadn’t progressed by now. Of course, after all he had shared with her, she realised he was probably just starved for companionship but wasn’t interested in her physically.

She supposed she could live with that, just being his friend, but she felt a sense of anticipation within her that she couldn’t chalk up to just their friendship.

At the same time, the stack of unread papers in her kitchen and untouched books on her bedside table spoke to the fact that she wasn’t spending her free time in the same way. She felt some guilt over letting go of her own investigation, as the mystery of London’s superhero had truly interested her, but she convinced herself that it was fair to prioritise her own needs and happiness over what had been just a lark, a distraction of sorts. After all, no one was getting hurt, and besides, as every report seemed to be in agreement, the streets of London had never been safer.

* * *

As the music played, Hermione’s father took turns twirling his wife and daughter around the kitchen. It had been a great Saturday. She and her mum had gone shopping earlier, and now the three of them were making dinner together.

Every now and then when a song came on that he liked, Richard would stop what he was doing, wipe his hands and extend one, implicitly asking either his daughter or his wife to join him. There had been a lot of laughter, and wine, and once again, Hermione was grateful to have this time with her parents. These were the lost moments for which she hoped to make amends, trying to create new memories to fill the holes in the time she had missed with them.

But even then, her parents were fine without her. They had each other when she wasn’t around. Their routines were rather well-established at this point.

She had been thinking about what Kingsley had said. She hadn’t set a meeting with him yet, and she wondered if that was because she was still really considering or if it was that she had become complacent with her current role and was more worried about opening herself up for something new.

She was good at her job, and she knew that neither Cormac nor her boss had the same attention to detail for working with Muggles. However, she had never intended for this placement to be permanent.

After a long dip, her mother came back up looking flushed, and her father wagged his eyebrows.

Those two were ridiculous.

Her father turned to Hermione, reaching for her hand once more, but she waved him off, wanting to finish cutting the potatoes. At this rate, it would be 10 o’clock before dinner was on the table.

“You know, Hermione, what you really need is your own dance partner, so you can stop stealing mine,” her mother teased.

Her father put his hands up, showing he was stepping out of that particular line of conversation, and walked over to the sink to wash his hands again.

Hermione sighed. Somehow, she thought she might escape without this lecture on her visit. She ignored her mother, hoping that might move her along, but this was well-worn territory.

“By the time I was your age, I’d already met your father.”

“I’m surprised that you’re so eager to shuffle me off.” She took the bait, as her mother knew she would.

“No one is trying to do that, but let’s be honest, you’re not even dating right now.”

Hermione redoubled her efforts on slicing the potatoes as she mulled over how much she should share with her parents, that she had was at least sort of seeing someone, even if she couldn’t quite put a label to it. She wanted to be honest with them, but whatever seemed to be happening between her and Draco was still rather new and undefined.

“It’s not that I’m trying to rush you dear. I just want you to have someone special in your life, and I worry when you come to spend Saturday nights with us, instead of hanging out with your friends. I mean, it’s not like I’m ready to be a grandmother, but I’d at least like to know we are heading that way, someday.”

This was just the wind-up. Next her mother would launch into a litany about how time was fleeting before ending with some comment about how Hermione’s ovaries weren’t getting any younger.

And then, there would be the inevitable pleas to allow her mother to fix her up with any one of several eligible men she knew, despite Hermione’s insistence that she was perfectly capable of deciding what she did with her love life. If she wasn’t careful, it all could get a little tense, and Hermione wished to avoid that at all costs. She knew her mother had her best interests at heart, even though Hermione felt she was going about it in the wrong way.

It was well-worn territory between them, which was why her father had so deftly manoeuvred himself out of the conversation.

She put the knife down and turned to face her mother. 

“Mum, I’m going to tell you something, but if I do, you have to promise me to leave it alone.”

Helen nodded with wide eyes.

“I’ve kind of started seeing someone.”

“One someone, as in not a group of friends?”

Hermione nodded, hoping she hadn’t just opened herself up for a barrage of questions.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” her mother gushed. “That’s wonderful. Tell us about him. When do we get to meet him?”

Hermione chuckled to herself. Her mother was playing it cool, while they both knew that her casually toned “tell us about him” meant “tell me everything.” Sadly, if she was expecting juicy details, Helen Granger would be disappointed. In fact, Hermione probably wouldn’t have mentioned it at all, except for the fact that she wanted to avoid her mother’s gentle nudges, nor did she want to find a number in her pocket for a boy that she should “just call because you’d get along famously.” And she had no intention of them meeting Draco any time soon, given they’d jump to conclusions that weren’t warranted, at least not at this point.

But even her father had inclined his ear to listen to her answer, which meant that she probably needed to tell them something more or they would never let it go.

“There’s nothing really to tell. We’ve been hanging out for a few weeks now. I like him, but we’re just friends. We’ve shared a few meals, wandered around London a bit.” She shrugged, hoping that she’d given them enough to chew on without overstating her relationship with Draco. Clearly, they were friends at this point, but Draco didn’t seem eager to take anything further, and she definitely didn’t want her mother to be laser-focused on something that she wasn’t even sure of herself.

“Wandered around London? Is he a…” Her mother’s voice trailed off, but Hermione knew what she was asking — was he a wizard or like them?

“He’s got magic,” she explained, and didn’t miss the fact that the corners of her father’s mouth drooped just a little.

She knew her parents were only concerned with her happiness, but they still had fears that her life with magic might come between them, as it had once before. This was why Hermione did her best to spend time with them and reassure them that no matter the direction in which her life took her, she was their daughter first and foremost, but she was also a witch. And as such, she wanted someone in her life that could both understand and appreciate that.

Because of the Statute of Secrecy, and people’s own limitations, there simply weren’t many Wizards who were comfortable in Muggle London, so her options were limited in finding a partner who wouldn’t be completely out of place at the family Christmas party, aside from other Muggleborns and a few Half-bloods.

On the flip side, she’d been careful to avoid forming any real attachments with Muggle men, much to her parents’ chagrin. She had begged off the dental rep her mother had tried to fix her up with last year after one disastrous date. She had only gone out with him in the first place to appease her parents. While he was nice enough to look at, they had absolutely nothing to talk about.

“Surely that’s not all. Is he part of the gang you see regularly?”

“Not really. I mean, he’s someone I went to school with, so he comes around occasionally, but mostly he’s kept to himself. We just recently reconnected, and we’ve had a chance to get to know each other, really for the first time.”

Her mother seemed satisfied that Hermione wasn’t spending all of her time alone. “And you’re planning to see him again?”

“Well, he’s someone I went to school with, so I’m sure I’ll see him again.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Helen Granger gave her daughter a look that meant that while she could appreciate her attempt at humour, she also wasn’t buying it.

Hermione tipped her head thoughtfully as she thought through her answer. “Knowing him, he’ll probably show up at my house tomorrow with take away. I don’t know how serious it all is, but he’s definitely interesting.”

Her mother nodded, satisfied with the detail she had been given, and smiled knowingly. “For you, dear, interesting is good. Now, let’s hurry and get this in the oven.”

* * *

It was the end of another day in yet another week, and a long one at that. She hated leaving work late. It wasn’t as if the Ministry paid her overtime, but here she was — it was nearly nine o’clock, and she was only now leaving work. There had been a shipment of mis-charmed radios that had mistakenly ended up in Muggle London. It had taken all day to deal with. Both she and Cormac had been tied up trying to wrangle the errant electronics with their boss, Mr Pennyweather, nowhere to be found.

Of course, Cormac had begged off doing his share of the paperwork, and while Hermione was already cranky and hungry, having missed lunch entirely, she’d sat down at her desk to finish what she needed to do before heading home. It wasn’t the only thing on her mind, however, as she let her frustration with her office mate — or really, her entire team — colour her thoughts.

The seed that Kingsley planted had continued to grow in Hermione’s mind. Was it time for her to move on and do something new? Was she just playing it safe by staying in Muggle Artifacts? She believed in the boundaries she had set and having this job had allowed her time to help her parents readjust and re-acclimate. But at some point, if you held to your boundaries too rigidly, or to the same ideals too long, maybe they began to work against you.

Hermione had been chewing on this all for several weeks now. She wasn’t yet ready to pull the trigger on the meeting with Kingsley, but she couldn’t say she wasn’t interested. She wasn’t the type of person who acted rashly, regardless of the fact that others would have already jumped at the carrot Kingsley had dangled. Hermione trusted him; she was willing to hear him out, but before she even took the step to put things in motion, she wanted to be sure that it would be worth it.

Given her head was otherwise occupied, her body led her through the motions as she started to make her way home. The street lights were already on, and she bundled her coat around her as she left the Ministry. She was in no mood to cook, so she planned to stop for takeaway near her house, which meant that she would have to Apparate to the alley nearest the store and head home from there. There was definitely a bottle of red with her name on it. Between some greasy chips, a healthy pour, and a soak in the tub, she’d be able to clear her head and push all this to the back burner.

She idly wondered what Draco might be doing this evening, but just as quickly pushed that thought away. They already had plans for Saturday afternoon. They were going to take in an exhibit at the Tate. Unlike Harry and Ron, Draco liked art. It was rather refreshing for her to have someone with whom she shared interests, particularly him, given how different their lives had been. As much as she wouldn’t mind seeing him, she didn’t want to seem desperate, especially since he seemed so reserved.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in spending time with her. The easy timbre of their interactions had continued, but Draco still seemed hesitant, as if he was keeping her at arms-length. It seemed silly given all they had shared at this point. He definitely appeared to enjoy their time together, but it also felt like he was holding back.

She ducked into the chip shop and picked up her food before turning towards home. Her head was filled with the day’s events, as well as the general state of her life.

In retrospect, she should have been paying more attention, but her neighbourhood was a quiet one, and she was only doing the same thing she had done countless times before, balancing her work satchel on her shoulder while carrying her takeout in her arms. She only had a block and a half to go when she felt a tug on her shoulder and watched helplessly as a man sprinted in front of her, having relieved her of her tote and causing her to drop her food.

Hermione felt like an idiot for having been so distracted and unaware of her surroundings. She yelled after the man, but he was already halfway down the block. She wasn’t a graceful runner, but she did her best to give chase and attract some attention while trying to find her wand in the fold of her coat so she could do something.

Thankfully, there was nothing important in there but her wallet, her heels and a few odds and ends. Nevertheless, it was the principle of it. All of it could be replaced, it was a mere inconvenience; regardless, they were her things.

It seemed, however, that either luck was on her side or karma was working far more quickly than usual. She watched from behind as the man reached the corner and tripped, falling flat on his face and lying still. She reached him, with her hand on her wand in her pocket, ready to cast an Incarcerous at the first sign of movement, but it appeared he had knocked himself out on the fall.

She picked up her bag and the contents that had spilled on the ground, found her mobile and dialled 999 with a shaky voice. Of course, they would want her to make a report when all she wanted to do was go home and now she’d have to scrounge in her cupboards for something that would be far less satisfying than the fish and chips that would now be left for the rats. Still, her neighbourhood was a haven, and she hated for that sense of security to be taken from her, or anyone. She felt decidedly unsettled and rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling — one of uncertainty, coupled with a decided lack of safety, and far too many unknowns. It was all too familiar, although it had been quite some time since

Thankfully, this had been an attempted theft; her person hadn’t been threatened. However, she couldn’t help but feel a bit miffed that no caped crusader had been standing by to assist her. It made her wonder about how the person chose to get involved. Clearly, this was too small an issue. She’d have to remember to cross-check the types of crimes against the list of interventions she had uncovered — if she ever got back to working on her project.

In the meantime, she stood back from the still-prone figure lying on the ground, watching as she heard the sirens draw closer, and gripping her wand entirely too hard. Her rational brain knew this was different from her experiences in the war, but her limbic system seemed to have other ideas. As the car pulled up, she heard footsteps approaching from the opposite direction and startled.

“Hermione?”

She turned and saw Draco walking hurriedly towards her, coming from the direction of her building.

“Draco?” She looked at him, confused to find him here.

“What’s going on?” he asked with concern.

“I- He-” was all she managed to eke out before she burst out in tears. She wasn’t even sure why she was crying, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

Draco wrapped her in his arms.

“There, there.” He held her steady. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Hermione took several deep breaths and rallied as the police arrived to assess the scene. One of the officers — the one who wasn’t tending to the prone figure on the ground — asked what had happened.

“He grabbed my bag as I was walking home. I- I- wasn’t paying attention-”

Draco pulled away and grasped her shoulders. “This has nothing to do with what you were doing. He was in the wrong.”

She knew that, but it didn’t make her feel any less silly for having been caught off guard in the first place. Moody would have had her head. She shivered, both a product of the chill in the air and her unease with the entire situation.

The officer spoke up, “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

She shook her head. “No, it just surprised me, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s lucky he tripped. Purse snatchings are all too common. Blasted opportunists. Most times, people don’t get their belongings back, unless they’re cast off or dumped later.”

The officer said something else, but she was having trouble following along. Whether it was embarrassment or the weight of what had just happened catching up with her, she wasn’t sure, but she definitely didn’t feel like herself.

She heard Draco address the officer, his voice was calm and authoritative.

“I’d like to get her home. Do you need anything else right now? Or can she finish this later?”

Someone thrust a business card in her periphery, but when she hesitated to reach for it, Draco pocketed it.

She heard another voice explaining, “She’ll need to make a detailed statement, but that doesn’t have to happen right now.”

“Thank you.” Draco spoke again, his face contorted with concern. “Hermione, do you have everything?”

She attempted to nod and felt Draco tuck her under his arm once again.

They weren’t far from her place — less than half a block away. She followed along as Draco led her up the stairs.

“Fuck. Can I get through your wards or will I need to dismantle them?”

Draco was speaking, but it was as if she was spectating. She could hear his words, although she couldn’t seem to focus on them. It was like she was underwater, trying to make sense of someone speaking at the surface. 

As she stood there at her door, she felt removed from reality, as if she was watching everything that was happening around her, instead of it happening to her. The circumstances were different, but for some reason it still felt like the nightmare she hadn’t been able to shake even all these years: of being tortured for information she refused to share, certain that if she did, the consequences would be even more dire than the position she had been in.

There was a flood of jumbled sights and sounds.

A voice of concern in her ear.

And then silence.

Dark.

A warmth that she needed to keep near her — it gave her a sense of security, it made her feel a little less alone. A little more tethered.

When the warmth drifted away, she would reach out for it, drawing it near to her once again, comforting her with its steady presence.

* * *

The room was dark and quiet.

Hermione blinked several times, as her eyes tried in vain to adjust. There was only a sliver of light filtering in from outside.

She straightened her leg, but pulled back as her foot brushed against something — or rather, someone. She wondered who had kept watch, and how long it had been since she had fallen asleep, like when she’d woken at Shell Cottage with her arm bandaged and Harry looking down at her with a frown set on his face. For someone who prided herself on being rational, losing her ability to think clearly to something far more primal was entirely disconcerting, particularly in this case where the trigger seemed to be so out of proportion to the reaction.

“You’re still here?”

Draco chuckled softly, “You didn’t want me to leave. I can go now, if you want.”

“No, no.” Hermione tried to not sound over-eager. “What happened?”

There were fragments she could draw from, but not one continuous memory.

Draco gave a heavy sigh. 

“What do you remember?”

“Bits and pieces. Coming in, sitting down.” 

“That’s most of it. I offered you tea and some biscuits I found in the cupboard, but you didn’t seem interested in anything. It was as if you were shutting down.”

“Disassociating.”

She could give it a name. It had only happened one other time in her life, and the irony was that he had been there for that episode, too.

“It’s happened before?”

“Only one other time,” she answered and noticed that he held his breath for a long moment before releasing it. She wondered if he knew what she was referring to. It was probably best they couldn’t see each other in the low light.

“What time is it?” she wondered.

“Around two, I think.”

“I’m so sorry. I-”

“Hermione,” he cut her off. “It’s not a problem. I’m kind of a night owl. I was far more worried about you. Every time I tried to slip away, you would reach for me again. I’m sorry for being in here uninvited; I didn’t want to leave you alone.” He paused for a moment. “Do you want me to call Pansy or Potter for you?”

“No.”

“Are you okay?”

She took a deep breath and took stock of her limbs, wiggling her toes. She had on an unfamiliar pair of pyjamas, most likely transfigured from her work clothes, and she had a blanket thrown over her, although Draco was ever the gentleman was lying on top of it. His self-control drove her crazy. She rolled over to face him. In the dim light, she could tell he was lying on his back. There wasn’t much room on her bed, but he was being careful to give her space.

“I think so?”

He turned his head towards her for a moment. She could make out the fringe of his hair, as light as it was, but not much else.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Well, that was a loaded question, although he probably had no idea. In all the conversations they’d had, they had never talked about _that_ night, the one that still gave her nightmares from time to time. And now that she was thinking about it, perhaps what had happened tonight made sense. But they probably needed to have this conversation so she could process her reaction to tonight.

“You might not like it.”

“Try me,” his voice was quiet, but firm.

She took a deep breath. If they were ever going to move forward from this carefully scripted and oh-so-polite dance they found themselves in, they couldn’t avoid it.

“After _that_ day… The day Bellatrix tortured me, something similar happened.” She paused, waiting for a reaction from him, but he stayed completely still, waiting to hear her out.

Hermione wished there was just a little more light, just enough so she could see Draco, while still having the buffer that the darkness provided between them. He was so close that she could feel him next to her, but at that moment, it instead seemed like a gulf.

She wondered what he was doing, whether he had closed his eyes or clenched his fists, whether he looked ashamed or caught off guard. Knowing what she knew of him now, she knew he probably blamed himself for what had happened to her in some twisted way. That wasn’t what she wanted, though. She didn’t want him to feel guilty, but she needed to give a name to what had happened, and she couldn’t do that without talking about what had occurred on the floor of the drawing room of Malfoy Manor.

She heard him take a breath, so she continued.

“I have to be honest, I don’t remember much of that night. There are only fragments after she started with the Cruciatus. I think my mind shut down to protect itself, to block out the pain. And then the knife. I remember the commotion, Ron grabbing me, but not much else until I woke up, and I was safe.”

“Maybe tonight was similar — not the physical aspects, of course,” she hastily added, “but the loss of control. I didn’t feel physically threatened tonight, but as much as I am usually, fine, I’m not surprised to realise there are still some old wounds. Maybe that’s my body’s way of trying to protect me from trauma. Does that make sense?”

Draco didn’t answer, but she knew he was listening, so she sat there in the dark, listening to him breathe, wondering what he was thinking about.

Eventually he sighed, “I wish it was possible to fix it. I wish I had been more brave. I wish I had done something, Hermione. What happened that day haunts me even now. I was already an unwilling participant, but to have to stand by, unable to do anything while you…” His voice trailed off.

“No, Draco. I told you I’ve already let it go. There was nothing you could have done, even then your hands were tied. I only brought it up to explain what I think happened tonight. I’m someone who thrives on having control of a situation, and maybe when that’s taken away from me, in a traumatic way, my mind reacts like it did tonight.”

This wasn’t something she wanted to squabble over. Truly, Hermione had done the work to put the experience in the Manor behind her, aside from the occasional nightmare. But maybe there were parts of her that had been irreparably changed by the experience even beyond the scars on her arm. The rigidity of the boundaries she’d worked so hard to establish and maintain, maybe they too were rooted in a subconscious effort to stay in control in ways she hadn’t given credence to. Maybe even her job — not wanting to cede what was easy for a step into the unknown.

Hermione used to be someone who thrived on inquiry and adventure, but maybe she had been drawing her own circle closer and closer without realising, until two things had recently appeared to change her course; Draco’s presence in her life, being one of them. The other, her interest in the so-called superhero sightings, and if she was honest with herself, that had largely been left by the wayside now that much of her attention was focused elsewhere.

It was a topic worthy of more thought, but not right now. Draco had fallen silent again and Hermione knew he was probably lost in his own twisted thoughts, all the scars others couldn’t see.

She tentatively reached over and placed her hand on his chest. His breath hitched for a moment, surprised by her touch. She let the rise and fall of his breathing ground her in the here and now. Bellatrix was dead. She couldn’t hurt anyone anymore. Hermione’s rational brain knew that, although her subconscious didn’t always play along with that narrative.

Tonight was a freak occurrence, and if she had been paying more attention, she wouldn’t have been caught off guard; or if she’d had food in her flat, she wouldn’t have been out walking that late in the first place. 

Hermione knew she shouldn’t blame herself; Draco was right — she’d done nothing wrong. And it was silly to deal in what ifs; what mattered was what was. Still, she felt off-kilter, sorting it all through.

As if he knew what she needed in that moment, Draco reached over and pulled her towards him, wrapping her in his arms. Or maybe it was what they both needed.

She released a shuddering breath. All the time they’d spent together, he had been so careful with her, so polite, but there had been a barrier between them, as if Draco was afraid to move beyond the friendship they had established.

Hermione took comfort from his presence as he rubbed lazy circles on her back. Both of them were quiet, but she couldn’t help but wonder if tonight might be a turning point of sorts for them, if Draco was willing to let some of his carefully crafted persona slip.

Here, in the dark, maybe they could move past the formality and lingering awkwardness. Draco had already bared much of his soul to her, and she had shared in kind.

She decided she would take a chance that there could be more between them. His hand immediately stilled when she lifted her head. Hermione could practically hear his inner monologue, wondering what he’d done wrong and what he should do next, when all she wanted was a different angle to work from.

He was skittish in that way — if she waited too long, either she’d lose her nerve or he’d shift and plop her back on the mattress and start making excuses about how he needed to go. That wasn’t what she wanted at all. 

“Draco?” she asked, hoping he’d give her a hint of where his mouth was in the dark.

“Hmm?” he answered quietly.

There he was. She pressed her lips to the side of his and then adjusted herself to land squarely on his.

She kissed him once, twice. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t join in either, waiting to see what she was doing. On the third peck, however, he caught on, joining her in the moment and kissed her back, moving his lips against hers.

All the emotions that had been pent up between them seemed to bubble over. She wanted this — an avenue for their relationship to progress. As odd as it would have sounded to her not so long ago, she wanted more with him, the man who had unexpectedly captured her heart.

Hermione swiped her tongue between his lips and took advantage of Draco’s surprise to deepen the kiss.

She half-worried that he might stop her, concerned about what she had been through tonight, but unlike her state earlier, this was no reaction to the night’s events; this was the result of far too many weeks of being forced to hold back the feelings she had been developing for Draco, and from the way he was reciprocating, he felt the same. She felt his arms tighten around her, as they explored each other for the first time, and she hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

It wasn’t a frenetic kiss. Instead, it was languorous and lazy, of two people who, after so many years of enmity, found that there were far more pleasant things they could be doing instead.

And yet, neither of them pushed for more, perhaps content with the breakthrough they had achieved.

At some point, she pulled back with a yawned.

Draco snickered. “Go to sleep, Granger.”

“You’ll stay?” she asked anxiously, feeling sleep overtake her.

“Tonight I will, but let’s not make it a habit.”

Whatever that meant. She’d think it through later.

She leaned down and caught Draco’s lips once more, just a quick peck.

“Thanks.”

He grunted and shifted her to lie next to him, wrapping his body around hers and draping an arm over her waist. For someone who slept alone, his warmth and presence was oddly comforting.

Hermione began to drift off to sleep again, nestled against Draco, but there was a niggling thought rattling around in her head…

They weren’t supposed to see each other until Saturday, so what exactly had Draco been doing at her place at all?

Now was not the time, however, she was too tired and comfortable at the moment to ask. She’d ask him tomorrow, assuming she remembered.

Instead, she drifted off to sleep thinking of kisses and possibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: The third portion of this chapter details Hermione being the victim of a purse snatching. The sudden and unexpected loss of control causes her to disassociate. Draco is there to care for her and the two of them are able to talk about what happened at the Manor that night for the first time. They reach both an understanding and a new level of intimacy (because yeesh… it’s been long enough) once Hermione has recovered.

**Author's Note:**

> “Constructive Reviews Welcome”  
> The author of this story accepts reviews/comments of people who simply enjoy their work, of course. But they are also happy to read and consider a thoughtful review of the work, even if it includes constructive criticism.


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